Destiny
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: Starts way before Sara and Grissom meet. Goes through their lives, making allusions to what happens, later, in the show as well as to the idea that Sara and Grissom have a deep connection, even before they know each other. GSR!
1. Prologue: Minnesota

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or any of the characters from CSI.

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Part One: Before

Prologue: Minnesota

I wasn't born in Minnesota. Or anywhere near it, for that matter—California is home, to me. But I have come to love it as if it were home to me. The people are people, like everywhere else, but perhaps with a little more deference and kindness. It's not even an active consideration—just the norm of interactions, here. It's a cultural thing. I don't think that exists in most of the country—it wasn't that way in California, and it wasn't that way in Chicago, either. I liked Chicago too—it took a while to get used to the cold.

I don't know how I would have handled Minneapolis if it hadn't been for the taste of winter that Chicago had given me. People call Chicago the windy city—they've obviously never come further north. Out of the city, nearing the western side of the state, the wind comes so strong that it could knock you off your feet… I'd been out in some of the worst weather, snow days and blizzards… days that kids walking to school might literally have been lifted from the ground from the force of the gales.

But the people made up for the weather—and Twins games were fun because they're affordable, for me, and never as crowded as in larger fields, even though the Metrodome had only been built a few years before I moved to Minneapolis. It was actually quite fascinating—the first major sports facility to have a dome supported completely by air. The scientist in me was giddy, the first time I entered.

I moved here from Chicago, because I was offered a better job—I would have been stuck working in the coroner's office in Chicago, which I had done all through grad school, but Hennepin county had an opening for a CSI, level one. It was the beginning of everything for me—the beginning of the career I hadn't known I'd wanted when I first fell in love with bugs, but somehow, the two worked together well. Bugs appeared on bodies in a timeline—they were forensically valuable. And my particular expertise in the area is fairly rare.

It was on my first day that I met Dr. Philip Gerard. I was twenty-eight years old—I say this like I am looking back from a great distance, from much greater maturity and growth. I feel much wiser, much more experienced, but I've only been here in Minneapolis a short time. But every moment has been invigorating! I miss my mother, who still lives in Marina Del Rey, because she's the only family I've had since I was nine, but I have never felt more alive than I do now.

Dr. Gerard took me under his wing, making my training his personal responsibility—I learned, like a child at their mother's knee, the commandments of forensics. I learned to follow the evidence—to trust it, rather than people—and that you can't crunch evidence to fit a theory. These, of course, were things I learned in school and in training—but you don't really understand how difficult they can be in application until you're there, facing the evidence, and having to tear the pictures of the crimes from the backs of your eyelids just so that you can think straight. He also taught me detachment, as a survival tool; you can't let victims become personal, or you wouldn't last at this job. He taught me that gallows humor was the deepest form of reverence for the dead—self-preservation for a higher purpose, the justice of the person on the table before you.

He made me love Minnesota, more than the people or the Metro dome or even the winters I had grown to appreciate—I loved Minnesota because of the man I had become there, under his guidance, and the man I anticipated becoming, staying here. I would never had had the nerve to ask Rebecca to move all the way to Minneapolis to be with be, if not for the confidence I gained from him—from only a few months doing something I loved and that I was good at. I missed her, and I wanted her there with me, so I asked. Amazing.

I had rarely had girlfriends, growing up. My first serious relationship was in Chicago—Rebecca Andrews. She was a theatre major—it's a wonder we ever fell for each other in the first place. I like to think that it's because of my mother—she had run an art gallery, when I was little, and had imparted upon me an appreciation for the arts. I loved theatre, art museums, literature… so even if she didn't understand my science, we shared many passions. When I moved, we stayed together, long-distance for a while. I started playing poker again, to raise money to drive to see her on the weekends. Finally, she auditioned at the Guthrie and got a part—and agreed to move to Minneapolis and see how she could do in the theatres there. I was ecstatic, and quickly started looking for an apartment to replace the studio I had signed a six-month lease on, when I had moved up here so hastily.

That was the moment I realized that things were turning around—that I might, just might, be able to have my cake and eat it too. I don't remember being so optimistic since my dad died, but it felt good to hope fiercely for a change. I had a beautiful woman who loved me enough to uproot her life for me, who was going to be appearing in a play at a prestigious theatre and who would hopefully, from that point on, be a familiar face at the Guthrie. I loved my job, loved my mentor, who took on an almost-fatherly role every once and a while, and I really, truly, loved Minnesota.


	2. December 1985

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: First posted fic. Please review! :)

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Chapter One: December 1985

Christmas

It was well below freezing—I had run down to start my car fifteen minutes before I needed to leave, hoping that that would be enough. It was an old car, and I had foolishly forgotten to plug it in the night before. It had been hard to remember—It had been the opening night of Becky's play, and after we'd stopped for a drink or two at a cast party, she had dragged me home, ecstatic with her excitement and success, and spent most of the night sharing that ecstasy with me. She had been vibrant, on stage, professional and believable and so _perfect_. I couldn't help telling her so, between frantic kisses and stuttered breaths. She moaned in pleasure at my praise and my attentions to her body, and I had never felt happier in my whole life.

I kissed her softly now, remembering the night before with soft eyes—I was always happy to make her feel good, and it pleased me that I had found an appropriate outlet for my varied types of praise. She smiled as we broke apart. "What was that for?" referring to the softness, more than the kiss itself.

"Just thinking about you… I'd better go, in case her plane is early." A nervousness slipped into her eyes, and I chuckled. "She's going to love you. Please, don't worry. And turn the oven down in fifteen minutes, okay, honey? I know how hard you worked on dinner… you'll be upset if you let your nerves ruin it."

She smiled wryly. "Right. I know. Gil..." I look at her questioningly, and she takes a deep breath. "She won't be able to hear me…"

I grinned. "No, I know, honey. But I'll translate for the two of you, and she can read lips very well… as long as she can see your face, you can talk to her as easily as you do with me. …Okay?"

She put on a brave smile. "Okay. I'll see you when you guys get home…" I kiss her quickly again, and I'm out the door, driving a little quicker than absolutely necessary to make up for lost time.

I park in short-term parking and walk briskly into the airport—my haste is more out of anticipation than lateness—and check the arrival times for her flight. It takes several minutes to find her correct gate, and I'm almost giddy with excitement. I haven't seen my mother for almost a year, and she's here to see the life I'm building—Rebecca, our apartment (although she's already written that she doesn't love the idea that we're living together in sin), my job… And then the plane is landing, and I'm pacing in my anticipation, nervous excitement thrilling down my arms. Maybe this is too much excitement for a young man to feel about seeing his mother, but I've always been a Mama's boy, and she's the only family I have.

Finally, finally, people are slowly climbing off the plane, looking travel-weary but good-natured. Most are here to see their families, I assume, because it's less than a week before Christmas. And there she is—looking travel-weary as well, but a sight for sore eyes. Her hair is gray, but kept in a long braid down her back, rather than cut short, as many older women do. Her face is round, soft… resembling the childlike aspects of mine, with none of the angles I inherited from my father. She smiles brightly when she sees me, and I return the gesture, waving. She waves back, and then breaks free of the line of people filing out to hurry to me and embrace me. I squeeze her tightly.

I sign to her as I speak. "Mother. I've missed you. How was your flight?"

She signs back, embarrassed of speaking in public, though her voice only sounds a little off. "Long, but it's good to be here. How are you, my son?"

"I'm good. Really good. Let's go get your luggage. Rebecca is cooking for us tonight…"

She smiles good-naturedly, having decided that I must make my own mistakes, and that she's not going to lecture me about my personal life. I know she thinks I'm not acting according to God's will, and I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't yet have a regular church in Minneapolis, or that Rebecca is Lutheran. We've already decided that we'll go to St. Paul's Cathedral on Christmas, because it's a landmark. She won't be here long enough to attend more than once, and I don't want to have a discussion about how I struggle with science and religion—how I believe in science because I've seen it work, whereas I haven't _seen_ God do anything—She'll tell me that my father found the balance, and my only response will be that I don't know my father anymore. It's best to avoid it altogether.

We collect a suitcase at baggage claim and I lead her out to the car—it's cold, and I'm kicking myself for not bringing a spare coat for her. She's wearing one, but it hardly protects her from this kind of cold. Once we get in the car I blast the heat and dig a blanket out of the back seat, kept there for emergencies, like a break-down in the winter. She looks at me gratefully, and I sign and speak that I'm sorry. We drive home.

I give her my coat when we park, insisting that she wear it, because we don't have a parking spot with our apartment, and so have to walk a block to the door. I would've dropped my mother off at the door and walked alone, but she wouldn't be comfortable letting herself in, and Rebecca would probably be flustered. I guide her with one hand grasping her elbow, afraid of her unsteady footing on the ice, carrying her suitcase in the other, and finally let her into the building.

It's a decent building—not great, but preferable to nicer buildings in worse areas of town. I feel safe leaving Becky here, when I'm at work, and that's what matters. Still, with my mother there, I'm embarrassed of the musty smell in the hallways, and quickly try to explain how all the snow melting from foot traffic causes the smell… She smiles at me, and tells me that she hadn't even noticed, but I worry that she's only being nice. I lead her up a flight of stairs, and then into Rebecca and I's home, shutting the door behind me and setting down her suitcase before taking the coats from her back and hanging them in the hall closet.

Rebecca comes out from the kitchen, looking nervous but lovely, all the same. She's changed clothes, again, but it was a good choice, in the end. Simple brown dress pants and a white button-up blouse. Her long, light brown hair is up in a ponytail, her bangs curled over her forehead—it is the eighties, after all. I slip my shoes off, and my mother follows suit, and then I lead her forward again, speaking and signing.

"Mother, this is Rebecca. Rebecca, my mother."

Rebecca smiles, moving forward to greet her, and signs and speaks "Hello," and then stops signing, because hello is the only one she knows confidently. "I'm… really happy to finally meet you. Gil… has told me so much about you."

My mother smiles, and hugs her, which makes me beam myself. And then she speaks, her voice just a little off, not extremely so, like people who have been deaf their whole lives. "Becky. You're as beautiful as he says you are. I'm so happy to meet you too."

And I know, from their smiles, that they're going to get along. Becky guides her into the dining room and offers her a refreshment. I start setting the table and Becky brings the food she's spent the day preparing to rest on the table. I offered to help her—I've been cooking most of my life—but she wanted it to be something she made for my mother. I think her idea is that, if she shows my mother how well she can play housewife, my mother won't judge her so much for sharing my bed. My mother judges me for sharing the bed, but I don't think she judges Becky as harshly… but maybe I'm wrong.

The food is delicious, and it's dark outside now, even though it's only just after five in the evening. We ate early, because my mother and I are going to see Becky's play tonight. We have seats in the very back, so that I can sign the words to her without bothering other patrons. After Becky clears the table, I take my mother's suitcase into the small spare bedroom that houses the single bed Becky brought with her from Chicago. It's simple, but clean, and I know my mother will appreciate how hard we're trying. I let her get settled in, and take the dishes over from Becky, telling her to go get ready or she'll be late. She doesn't want the director mad at her—he does a lot of plays at the Guthrie, and she wants other roles in the future.

She pecks me quickly on the lips, looking relieved, and more relaxed after realizing that we were able to share a dinner in comfortable conversation with my deaf mother. I know it had worried her, and I'm glad to see that slipping away now. "Thanks, honey. I'll hurry."

And she does hurry—double checking anything she's brought home with her and doing her hair rapidly, disliking doing it in front of other people because she was a bit of a tomboy when she was younger, and never really mastered the curling iron. Then, resting her duffle bag by the door, she comes to sit on the couch with my mother and I, to talk for a few minutes before she absolutely has to go. My mother asks about her play, and her face is animated—describing the plot, but not the ending, and the character quirks and developments, and the lead in the play who has become to her a bit of what Dr. Gerard is to me. She says she's never seen a character so flushed out, so perfectly executed down to every gesture and nuance. My mother and I both smile, watching her describe it. It's impossible not to see how she loves it, how her face lights up, and my mother is more than appreciative of the arts herself. They definitely have an area in which they can bond.

Becky takes her leave, but my mother and I have another hour and a half before we need to leave, and so we settle in to a comfortable conversation. I tell her about our plans for the next five days that she's here—Becky's play tonight, Dinner and presents on Christmas Eve, Mass and another dinner on Christmas day, a museum or two, lunch with Dr. Gerard—she wants to meet the man who has inspired me, and he wants to meet the amazing woman I've described to him so often, and then a day to relax before she has to fly back home. I'm already wistful, describing her leaving, and she smiles kindly, putting a hand to my cheek and placing a kiss on my forehead.

Of course, this is also when she decides to delve into my personal life. My job is good, she asks, and am I likely to advance where I am now? I tell her yes, for the immediate future—I have a long ways to go—once I'm a higher level CSI, I'll have to look into my prospects. She nods, seeming satisfied, and moves on. Becky—being an actress is not steady work, by any means. I tell her we're doing okay… we're trying to live off my income, and save hers for a rainy day, or things we need around the house. That way, we already know we're living within our means, even if she doesn't get a part for a while. This seems to satisfy her—we've obviously thought this through—and then comes the thing I'm waiting for.

"Gilbert, she's a nice girl. If you love her, why don't you ask her to marry you?"

I sigh. "I don't know if we're ready for that, Mom."

Her eyes narrow. "But you're ready to live together? What does your priest think?"

I hesitate. "I asked her to move to a new city for me—her finances are precarious at best. She wouldn't be able to be here if she didn't live with me. And I haven't told a priest."

Her lips are pursed. She's saving the church conversation for later, I can tell. "If you want her to be with you, do the honorable thing, Gilbert. Marry the girl. How does her mother feel about her living in sin?"

I sigh again, more sad than frustrated this time. "Exactly the way you feel, maybe a little less understanding."

"Gilbert, it's her child—her baby girl. Do you think she wanted her to grow up to…" She hesitates, but now I'm getting angry at what I know she hasn't said.

"To what, Mom? To commit adultery? To be a whore? What exactly are you calling Becky?"

She watches me for a moment, controlling her anger (I had just accused her of calling Becky a word she had probably never uttered in her life), though I see it seething in her blue eyes—my blue eyes. And then she answers me, softly but more harshly than I'm expecting. "…to live with a man who cares enough about her body to have her, but not enough about her heart to want to keep her." She rises then, moving into the spare bedroom, and closing the door, and I'm left dumbfounded… lost.

She doesn't bring up our conversation again, even ignoring the religion conversation the entire time she's here, but I start to change how I view Becky and I's relationship. After my mom leaves… I worry about making love to her. I worry about touching her. I worry that I'm not giving her what she deserves… and that I know, somewhere deep in my gut, that I don't want to give her that either. I loved Minnesota—perhaps too well. It allowed me to be more of a man than I was… but less a man that I could be proud of. We broke up near the end of January, and she moved back to Chicago with her mother. Merry Christmas, 1985.

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Merry X-Mas, and all that Jazz

It's Christmas time. I don't really like the holidays. They weren't good at home, and they're not any better with strangers. I'm the oldest kid here, so the Moore's expected me to be happy and cheery, to make the little ones feel better. There are four foster kids here, myself included, and even though I resent the expectation, I try my best to make the younger kids feel better and get excited about Santa coming. Just because I see through the bullshit doesn't mean that I have to ruin it for them too. I'm fourteen, just turned last September, but I'm in the ninth grade already. My real parents put me in first grade when I was five because they wanted me out of the house more of the day, but full time daycare was too expensive.

It's okay though—puts me a little ahead of the curve. I figure that if I get ahead on classes, take as many credits as I can, and take summer school, then I can graduate when I'm sixteen. I'll still be in the system, so that gives me free room and board, and I'll be old enough to get a job. I'll work as much as I can, save up money, and apply for grants and scholarships. I'll apply for emancipation from the state when I'm seventeen, go to college, and never ever have to live with strangers again. Never have to put on a smile because there are younger kids who remind me of my first time in foster care and who I don't want to scare or disappoint. Never have to smile or hug people I don't know and I don't like, just because I feel like I owe them.

But right now, the little ones are taking a nap, so as long as I'm quiet, I can slip into the room I share with the 6 year old, Emily, and read for a few hours before anything else is expected of me. When they wake up, maybe I'll slip out, walk around the neighborhood for a while, anything just to feel like I'm alone, rather than constantly crowded. I sneak quietly into the room—she's a little old for a nap, but she still needs it… if she doesn't get it, she throws monster tantrums all afternoon. I've started helping my foster parents get her to sleep, just for some peace and quiet in the evenings. She's sleeping soundly now, and I know that she's a heavy sleeper. There are lots of books in the house, which is nice. I wouldn't want to have to ask for money for a book.

I selected Of Mice and Men from a row of John Steinbeck novels in the living room, and now I sprawl on the plain, pink bedspread, trying to lose myself in it. Even though Christmas is in a few days, I can't bring myself to read something more appropriate, like The Gift of the Magi… I know the story well, but it leaves me feeling hollow. I can't imagine anyone giving up something precious for me, and the ending doesn't seem like a larger gift, but the eventual outcome of all life's endeavors—the best laid plans, falling apart and leaving both the man and his wife with nothing. O Henry was a little off, I decide, opening my chosen volume and beginning to read.

It's two hours later when Emily starts to stir. I debate being there when she fully wakes up—sometimes she's nice to talk to. But I feel an overwhelming desire to avoid this house right now, so instead I slip out again, looking around for Mary and Don. Not seeing them, I replace the book, not needing to mark the page to remember my place, and quickly snatch up a sweatshirt I'd left on the couch and let myself out. It's still warm in December in California, but sometimes when there are clouds, and a little wind, you get chilly.

I begin my trek down the street, turning into the first alley I find. I don't want to be seen, I just want to walk. It doesn't take me long to get out of the residential area and into downtown. It isn't a big town, and we live close. The alleys here are longer and darker, but this is a preference, and I know the labyrinth of them well. You don't usually see anyone else around, so I'm surprised when I stumble into a small group of kids, a little older than me—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. They're just as surprised to see me, and we have a moment of silence, and then I break it. "Hey."

They nod at me, apparently deciding I'm not a threat. There's another girl, leaning against the chest of a boy leaning against the wall of the alley, sitting between his legs. Then are two other boys—younger than the first, who look more like followers than leaders. I turn instead to the most dominant of the group—the boy against the wall. He smiles. "Hey. Come hang for a while."

The corner of my mouth turns up in surprise, but I move over and sit on an overturned garbage can. One of the younger boys passes me a cigarette, and I take an anxious puff. I don't usually smoke, though of course I've tried it, but now is not the moment to back down. You have to show your dominance, from the beginning, or you end up sitting between some creep's legs in an alley while he and his friends smoke. I glance at the girl, biting back the laugh in my throat. That isn't fair—it's possible that she actually likes him. But he doesn't give a shit about her—otherwise she'd been sitting up on something, not on the ground. You learn things, about how people relate to each other, when you grow up in a house like mine.

"Sara." I tell him. He lists them off with reckless disregard.

"Sam, Alex, Justin, Katie." I nod to each of them. Sam is the leader.

We pass the cigarette between the five of us for a few minutes, talking with more obscenities than are actually necessary, showing off more than anything. I remind myself to chew some gum when I get back in the house, or they'll know I was smoking. Mary and Don aren't the most observant people in the world, but they're not stupid either. After fifteen minutes, I thank them for the smoke and leave, heading back to Mary and Don's. Even though I didn't sit for very long, the walk here and back would have taken up a considerable amount of time, and if they're looking for me I won't have time to change clothes and find that gum I was looking for.

Luckily, Don's in the garden and Mary's cooking. I hurry to my room, changing quickly, and then dig gum out of my nightstand. Chewing aggressively, I move to the bathroom, spraying some of Mary's perfume on the clothes and stuffing them to the bottom of the hamper. Laundry is my job, so as long as they don't notice it for the next day or so, I should be fine. I remind myself to smile big, and have a story about walking to the park ready, if they ask. They probably won't—it's dinner time, and they'll have their hands full with the little ones. Emily will fall to me while Mary tries to bottle feed an infant and feed baby food to a slightly older infant, and Don will be eating—exhausted from working and then gardening all day. Mostly, if he tries to help, he ends up yelling… so we avoid needing his help.

And then, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I'll get up early to help Mary cook the big dinner, and then it'll be my job, once she doesn't need the extra hands to get Emily showered and dressed, and then to dress the babies in our hand-me down dress clothes, for church. After an hour and a half in church, singing Christmas Carols and learning about Jesus, we'll head home to eat, and then Don will watch football and fall asleep on the couch, and the kids will take a late nap. Presents aren't until Christmas morning—when "Santa" brings them, and there will probably be two a piece… a box of clothes, and a toy. Maybe, if some charity sponsored us or the foster care program this year, there will be more, but that's wishful thinking.

At least no one will be screaming, I tell myself, heading out to the kitchen to help Mary, or bleeding. If I get Joshua started on his bottle early, maybe dinner will be calm, and Don will be happy. That'll be a good Christmas present, for Mary. She needs a calm night right now… I've seen how her hands have started to tremble whenever one of the babies starts to cry. It happens in all the homes I've been in—the county gives you as many kids as you're willing to take, and it becomes too much. People get angry—Don's start yelling, even when they're not particularly aggressive men in the first place. She just needs a little help right now.


	3. August 1986

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, etc.

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Chapter Two: August 1986

Thirty

In August of the following year I turned thirty. I received a present in the mail from my mother, and a card from Becky, telling me she hoped everything was going good for me. It was… though I missed her. …I'm not certain, really, if it was her that I missed, or simply a companion. This doubt was my reassurance that I had done the right thing, and that she belonged in Chicago. I had made some friends at the lab, and we went out for drinks every once and a while… I wasn't a big drinker, and they were partiers… big partiers. But, for my birthday, I made the exception, having taken the night off anyway, though I wasn't sure why I had done so. Maybe just because I didn't want to hear 'over-the-hill' comments all day. I didn't feel old… I felt like I was finally living my life after years of school.

And so, I tried to relax, enjoy the bar and the atmosphere, and enjoy the free drinks. There was a woman at the bar that my friends convinced me to talk to…her name was Laura. Strawberry blonde hair trailed down her back sensuously, and finally I made my way over to her, nervous, but not so much as I might have been in college.

"Hi, I'm Gil Grissom." I hold out my hand, rather than touching the small of her back, in greeting, as the men at my table had suggested. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She smiles, and takes my hand gratefully. I'm glad that I didn't listen to them. "Laura Michaels. I'll take another martini." I grin, and order it for her as soon as the bar tender looks our way.

"So, are you from the cities?" The cities refers to the twin cities—Minneapolis/St. Paul. Thus the baseball team.

"Yeah, I grew up here. What about you?"

"Not a native, but I've lived here more than a year now. I'm from California, originally."

"What made you move?"

I smiled. "My job."

The drinks are placed before us and she sips her deliciously. "What do you do, Mr. Gil Grissom?"

I chuckle. "I work at the crime lab. I'm with the forensics team."

"So you're like a cop?"

I chuckle again, turning my body to face her more directly. "I'm a scientist. I figure out what happened at the scene of a crime…"

"I thought detectives did that."

I smile ruefully. "They do that too. I just handle the science of it…"

She chuckles now, and I relax a little. "Sorry, didn't mean to fluster you. …I'm a teacher."

"Really? What age group do you teach?"

"Kindergarten."

"Cute."

She gave me an odd look, and I'm pretty sure I felt a blush rising in my cheeks, which made her smile instead. "You like kids?"

I tilt my head. "Yeah… I like kids. I'm an only child so I don't necessarily have a lot of experience… but in theory, I _love_ kids."

"So you don't have any of your own?"

I shake my head. "No. You?"

She nods. "A three year old, from my first marriage."

"Widowed?"

"Divorced."

I nod, but would rather not talk about an ex-husband. "Little girl or little boy?"

Another strange look. "Girl. …You… you can leave, you know. You don't have to keep talking to me."

My turn to give her a look. "Leave? I'm sorry, if I'm bothering you I can go…"

"No, no. You're not bothering me, I just… I figured you'd be done trying to pick me up once you learned I'm a divorcee with a kid." I laugh—really laugh, and she can't tell whether to be upset about it or not, and settles for an uncomfortable half smile. "What?"

"I just… I can't believe you would think that. First of all, I'm not trying to 'pick you up'… I was hoping the night would end with your number on a napkin and a real date, not in a bar, in a few nights. Now that I know you have a daughter, the only thing that changes is… well, I'd probably take you to a Chucky Cheese and a Disney movie instead…"

Her eyes narrowed. "You'd want Amber to come?"

I chuckle again, at her confusion more than her words. "You can't date a parent without dating the kid too… it has to be about both of you, or I wouldn't feel right…"

She smiled—really smiled—and it was blinding. I felt myself grinning too. She slid a cocktail napkin over to herself and, retrieving a pen from her purse, wrote down her name and number before sliding it across the bar to me.

"I hope you call."

I smile too, taking her hand and kissing the back of it before I speak. "I will."

* * *

Tenth Grade

The first day of school is always a drag. It's made worse because my teachers like to try to get to know me. They know from my records that I'm in foster care, and from my clothes that we're not doing so well, and from my grades and the classes I'm in that I'm smarter than anyone else in my grade, even if I am a year younger. They don't know that I'm outside smoking, not with the cool kids, but alone, in between classes. They don't know that I'm in my third foster home this year, or that I was moved out of the last one for punching my foster dad when he hit his wife. They don't know why I'm in foster care, or that my mother is still alive but doesn't write to me. So I avoid them—soft smiles and not speaking in class makes them think I'm shy, and that helps.

I took AP Bio during the summer, and I'm in AP Chem this year. The tests are expensive, so I dunno if I'll be able to take them… but I don't have to take them at the same time as the class, so maybe I'll wait and pay for it myself when I turn sixteen. It'll mean I might have to work an extra year before college, but it'll also mean less classes to get a degree. College is expensive, and I've got my heart set on an Ivy League school… Harvard, maybe, if I get in. You go to Harvard and nobody cares how you grew up. I'm also in Algebra 2, which is too easy for me, but at least I can take AP Calculus next semester, and then AP Trig next year. The cost of all these tests is going to be bad… maybe there's some sort of grant I can get, to pay for them…

I glance from my bed to the closet. Maybe I should think about what clothes I'm going to wear tomorrow, for the first day… not that I have anything amazing, but first impressions are important. You don't want the brains to think you're one of them just because you're in all their classes, and you don't want anyone else to think you can't take them in a fight. Otherwise the year is hell. Until you prove them wrong… but then your foster parents are pissed, and I know that otherwise nice people change when their shit of a foster kid gets them pissed off. I try to avoid pissing them off, as a general rule.

The books here aren't as good—I get bored more easily. I didn't think I'd miss Don and Mary's until I had to leave… he got a job out of state, and they took the infants, but Emily and I were both given back to the state. I heard they were going to legally adopt them, and I tried to be happy, but I was bitter more than anything. So no O Henry, no Shakespeare, no John Steinbeck or Edgar Allen Poe... Maybe I should walk to the library… at least it would occupy some time. I wouldn't even have to check the books out… just sit and read for a few hours. I was afraid of what the seven year old monster in the house would do to the books if I brought them here, and I didn't have the money to replace them if they got wrecked.

…My birthday is a month away… I wonder if I'll get anything. Maybe if they don't remember what day it is, I'll treat myself and pretend to be sick so I can stay home. I hated when my birthday fell on a school day, because the office announced birthdays over the intercom in the morning, and then I would spend the day being wished a "sweet sixteen" by anyone nice enough to care, and then the other science nerds… I was fifteen, but it wasn't good to advertise any weakness. You didn't want to lose the upper hand just by circumstance of birth, after all.

I rise, frustrated, and move into the bathroom, glancing at myself in the mirror. My unruly curls are made worse by the heat, but there's not really much to be done about it. Maybe I could get a job now… it would be restricted hours and not a lot of money, but it might buy me some books… makeup… a straightener. I would feel better about myself if I could cover some of me… maybe Chucky Cheese would need someone to wash dishes, or clean up after the bratty kids. I've dealt with more than enough bratty kids to know I have a tolerance for them. …I wonder if Jim and Marlene would let me get a job… if I walked, maybe they wouldn't be so mad.

I resolve to look into it, knowing that before I turned 15 it was pointless anyway. I move back to my little bedroom and look into the closet this time, deciding. I have an old pair of jeans that I think I look sexy in, and sexy is good… sexy screams powerful and in-control. There's a black, short sleeve shirt, that I think would make the jeans look tougher, but I prefer tank tops if I can help it. I dig out a red one—red is a powerful color too. You can't choose too carefully the image you put out on the first day… but I think this one works. Plus, I'm skinny enough that little shirts make my tiny boobs look bigger, which is half about my own self image, and half about the sexy thing… you look older, too, with big boobs. The age thing is a problem. I feel like I was born a few years too late… more than one or two… five, eight maybe… I don't feel like I'm turning fifteen in a month. I feel like I'm in my twenties…


	4. September 1986

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I do better things with them than CBS does, anyway...

* * *

Chapter 3: September 1986

Feeling Old.

I really don't feel like I'm in my thirties now. That's what a co-worker said today, when I said I didn't feel like grabbing a drink after work. "Hey, I get it. You're in your thirties now, right?" And he had laughed.

I remember sitting in front of my cockroaches for several minutes, considering his words. I didn't feel like I was getting old… I wouldn't have gone out tonight when I was 25, would I? I was tired and…

So it was not five minutes after getting off work that I was on the phone, calling Laura. She answered "Hello?" and I was happy to hear her voice.

"Hey, Laura, sorry it's such short notice… I'm just getting off work, thought I'd call and see if you and Amber wanted to catch dinner."

"Yeah, that'd be great, Gil. We haven't even thought about dinner yet… it's been such a hectic day. Listen, uh, when d'you think you'll be over for us?"

"A little over an hour, I'm still at work. Does that work for you?"

"Absolutely. We'll see you then, Gil."

There. I wasn't old. I was going out with my girlfriend… _and her three year old_. But Amber was the sweetest little girl you could ever meet—her mom's long strawberry blond sheet of hair trailing behind her as she skipped from place to place. Her dad was a dead beat, couldn't be relied upon to pay any child support, but she was bright and funny and energetic. I questioned myself, once or twice, if I would have continued asking Laura to dinner if it hadn't been for Amber… she was icing on the cake, but everyone knows that icing is the best part.

Maybe I am getting old… feeling old. I'm thirty and yet I've never been in love… I've spent my whole life dedicated to my science. There's a beautiful woman in Chicago who I couldn't love enough, and a beautiful woman in Minneapolis whose daughter is more appealing to me than she is—I would rather be Amber's father than Laura's husband.

I sigh, and make my way home, dressing for dinner and arriving at their apartment just over an hour later—perfect timing. Dinner is great, and it's so exciting to hear about Amber's day that I forget that Laura told me hers has been hectic. When we finally get back to their apartment, Laura goes to tuck Amber in, though I wish I could accompany the pair of them, and I make coffee instead. We sit, and I can tell she's glad to have a moment alone. I try to tell myself I feel the same way, and she asks about my day.

I never go into details… she was alarmed when she found out my expertise was in insects, and positively petrified to find out how many dead bodies I'd touched that day… I figured she didn't need specifics, but I explained our case load as much as I could and then inquired about her day. It was only moments before I had scooted closer to give her a back rub—she needed it after the day she'd had.

Another teacher had called in sick, and they were short on subs as it was, so she'd taken half of the other class for a day and had to teach using two lesson plans. There were too many kids, legally, in the room, and it threw off the day's schedule, which is about all that keeps kids from being crazy—they have order and consistency in a schedule. Lots of kids don't deal well with change. A little boy also broke his arm on the playground, so she'd gotten a twenty minute screaming at from his mother when they spoke, three children had decided to eat glue, hardly anyone had napped because there were too many kids in the room, and so she'd had to deal with about ten tantrums from the end of nap 'til the end of the day.

She sighed heavily, leaning back against me as I kneaded out the knots I found there. I enjoyed the contact with her, and bent my head lower, kissing along her neck as my hands moved to wring knots out from below her shoulder blades. She moaned softly, whether from my kisses or my hands, I'm not sure, but that was my undoing. I turned her head softly and planted a gentle kiss to her lips, letting it slowly deepen and become fiercer. She was breathing heavily as she ran her fingers over my face and into my hair, and then we were lying on the couch, devouring each other in kisses and breathing erratically.

"Bed—Bedroom?" She gasped out, and though it had not been my intention, I did not argue—I wanted it too. The heat was flashing like fire through my body already.

It was only moments before we dragged ourselves up and into the room. Once clothing had fallen away, however, I hesitated. "Wait… Laura, wait, wait. ...Amber."

Her tongue dragged down my chest and I lost my train of thought. "She sleeps like the dead… just don't be _too loud_." My breath hitched in my throat as she came back up to me, one hand wrapping around me, kissing me and then finally straddling me.

"Laura… I… we… protection." I gasped out, between moans, trying desperately to be responsible.

"I'm on the pill. Now… are you going to fuck me or not?"

My resolve was broken in a four-letter rush of ecstasy, and I took her quickly and without further hesitation… but I was nearly silent the entire time. I didn't want Amber to hear us, no matter how deeply she slept.

* * *

My birthday. Whoop-de-freaking-do.

They didn't remember, which was a blessing in disguise, I suppose, because I was able to stay at home. I slept in, pretending to be sick, and around noon she asked me if I wanted some chicken soup. Marlene was decent, even if Jim was a little gruff sometimes, so I obligingly padded out in my pajamas and ate the soup. I must have looked sick, because she clucked her tongue and sent me back to bed when I had finished, telling me I needed my rest. I really wasn't tired though, so I dragged a library book out from its hiding place under my mattress and started to read—Romeo and Juliet.

I had read and loved Hamlet, so I figured I would give this one a shot. I had been a little disappointed, when I first started reading it. This love-at-first-sight bullshit was irritating. They sounded more like two horny teenagers who had never defied their parents and let their hormones mix with the un-indulged rebelliousness in their teenage brains, and ended up pissing a lot of people off. It was romantic, I supposed, that they gave up everything to be together… but I couldn't help but doubt the trueness of their love. Maybe they sacrificed everything for a crush and a good lay and, had they survived the ordeal, would have gotten divorced. Maybe he would have started sleeping around, maybe she would have started drinking…

I put the book away, knowing that I need to divert this train of thought if I don't want to have nightmares again tonight. Jim gets frustrated when my screams wake him up, and I'd like to stay with the same family for more than a few months… I learned, after leaving Don and Mary, that it can always get worse. I was content to stay here, as long as I didn't end up somewhere worse.

I had pretended to be sick today, so I would have to wait until tomorrow to tell Marlene and Jim that Chucky Cheese had hired me to do dishes and work the ticket counter. I had offhandedly mentioned getting a job about a month ago, and they hadn't seemed like they would be upset. I would just have to hope… and hope that they let me keep the money. I hadn't thought they wouldn't, but there was a girl in my last home who kept getting mad at our parents because they would take the money she earned, saying it was their right. Technically, parents could do that… maybe I'd have to hide my money, or open a bank account. I didn't know how I'd do that without putting one of their names on it, but I'd figure something out… I would have to.

I rolled over in bed, looking at the old alarm clock I'd been given to use for my early mornings. It was after 3:00… school would be out by now. I wonder idly whether one of the girls in my science class will bring my homework over and silently hope that no one thinks to be that considerate. I don't like to advertise my living situation and they would only know even what part of town I live in because I have to ride the bus to school. They probably won't, I decide, feeling my eyes start to droop again. Maybe I am getting sick, I'm tired again…

The homecoming dance is coming up next month. Though I think I scare most of the guys I go to school with, a few in random classes have been flirting with me, asking if I'm going to the homecoming game and the tailgate… I had to prevent myself from laughing at that suggestion, but it got me thinking. I couldn't really accept an invitation to the dance, where would I get a dress? …I'd have to avoid the subject like the plague, because if somebody really cute asked me, I would feel horrible having to tell them no. They'd probably never ask me out again… and despite my attempt at a tough exterior, I did want a boyfriend… I wanted to feel pretty and wanted and admired.

I scoff into my pillow, as sleep is slowly creeping over me. I probably don't have anything to worry about; I don't think anyone will ask me anyway. Well, this is what fifteen feels like… I still don't feel fifteen. I feel eighty. I feel a hundred. I feel so tired.


	5. December 1986, January 1987

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

Chapter 4: December 1986/January 1987

New Year's Eve

Laura and I are at a New Year's Party that the crime lab is holding, but she's strange… stiff. She tenses when I put my arm around her, and I'm confused. Maybe she's just missing Amber… heck, I miss the little squirt too. But it's well past her bedtime now… it's not like either of us could be with her right now anyway. I kiss her forehead and tell her I'll get her a drink, and she smiles almost sheepishly, like she's embarrassed at her behavior, and stops me. She doesn't feel like drinking, tonight, she says.

My eyebrows come together. "But it's New Year's…"

She shrugs. "I have a bad headache, Gil…"

So I nod, and return with a coke for her instead, which she accepts gratefully, linking her arm through mine and seeming less tense now. Maybe it _was_ just the headache…hopefully some caffeine will help. I introduce her to Dr. Gerard, whom she has long since tired of hearing about, and then reintroduce her to the guys who were at the bar with me the night I met her. There are other introductions, but none really stick. I grab her a plate of food and we sit in chairs near the walls. She's usually a more life-of-the-party kind of person, but maybe she's shy around new people… or maybe it's the headache bothering her. Regardless, once we've finished eating, she allows me to steer her onto the dance floor and spin her around—we haven't had an opportunity to dance yet, in our relationship, and her eyes grow wide as I move her gracefully across the floor.

Her eyes ask the question, and I laugh to myself. "My mother made me take ballroom dancing, when I was eleven… It was embarrassing at the time but I'm grateful for it now…the _ladies_ love it!"

She laughed airily, "The ladies, huh?" and I kept us dancing for most of the night, because she didn't seem so quiet when we were on the floor, and she smiled more. Despite not being in love with her, I certainly cared about her. I liked it when she smiled.

At midnight, we shouted our countdown to the heavens with all others in attendance and, upon shouting "Happy New Year!" with the masses, I captured her mouth in a deep, searing kiss. Cheers and choruses of Auld Lang Sine broke out, but it took several seconds before we could pull from each other, and I read desire as clearly in her eyes as if I had been looking into a mirror. And then, something changes in their depths… something unidentifiable, unquantifiable, and then she's torn her gaze from me. Everyone is distracted, cheering, drinking, as I pull her to a secluded corner of the ball room, confused.

"Laura—"

She's too fast for me. "Not tonight, Gil."

"What? Why not? Tell me what's bother—"

"I'm pregnant."

My whole world is reeling, but I cannot move, and I cannot speak.

"Close your mouth, Gil." She says disdainfully, pushing past me and moving to join the celebration.

I can't get her alone again until everyone is leaving… it's nearing one-thirty in the morning and the babysitter can't stay past two… We pile into my car—a newer one now, but still used. It's what I could afford. There's silence at first, but it's a long drive back to her apartment, and eventually the tension is broken.

"Laura… I'm sorry. I was just… surprised. It took me off guard."

She sighed heavily. "I know. It was… easier to be mad at you than to deal with it."

I nodded, biting on the inside of my cheek while I thought. "How far along are you…?"

She swallowed hard. "Ten weeks."

I do the math in my head—if it wasn't from the first time, it was one of the first times… mid-September. My mouth is dry and I swallow convulsively. I finally come to myself, taking her hand gently and kissing the back of it, as I did the day we met. "How long have you known…?"

"…a few days. I should have noticed but… I figured… I skip periods when I'm stressed. It's happened often enough for me to disregard it…"

I nodded, my fingertips caressing the hand I held, staring ahead into the frozen night. "Well… we'll figure this out. It'll be okay, okay honey? Come on, we're both exhausted… we'll sleep when we get back to your place, and then in the morning I'll be right there… neither of us have to work… we'll sit down and make some decisions. Okay?"

She nodded, sniffling and avoiding my gaze, but I doubted that she was crying… she wasn't really a crier… not very expressive of her emotions…

When we got back to her apartment, I parked and went inside with her—normally we would have questioned if I was going to spend the night, but tonight it was understood. I paid the babysitter, a college student from the same building, and watched out the door to make sure she got back to her place safely, before seeking out Laura. She was kneeled beside Amber's bed, watching her with tears in her eyes.

I moved over, leaning down to softly kiss the little girl's forehead, and then resting a hand on Laura's shoulder. She did not rise, and I was confused. Then she spoke.

"You're in this relationship more for Amber than for me…"

I looked at her in alarm, kicking myself for having been so transparent, but could not bring myself to lie to her about it. She half-laughed.

"I was really okay with that… she needs a positive male role model… and I don't… I'm not in love with you either." She looked up, our eyes met, and there was understanding. We weren't in love. Neither had been misled or had fallen too hard… we were still on an equal playing field. She continued. "That's why I won't marry you, Gil. I know… I know that you'll want to do the 'right thing,' and that your mom is going to have a heart attack when she finds out… but I've already lived through a loveless marriage. I don't intend to enter another one knowingly."

"The baby…" I interrupt, because I can't imagine not stepping up and taking responsibility for my actions. She surprises me by smiling genuinely.

"It'll be our baby. I know you'll be a good Daddy, even if the idea scares you, a little… and Minnesota is very progressive. We don't need to be married for it to get health insurance or life insurance from either of us… I don't know, I guess, which of us has better benefits…" She sighed, a little heavily. "And Amber will have a little sibling… a man who is in her life, consistently… for me, at least, this is kind of a blessing in disguise…" The smile she gave did not reach her eyes. "And you and I… we can keep dating, if you want… see where this leads us. Maybe if we fall in love, we'll decide to get married. But we… we don't have to stay together, either. I mean, if… if the idea of breaking up once we have a baby is worse…" She drew in a breath, as if trying to force herself to speak more clearly. "What I'm trying to say is that we're not in love, and there's no reason to believe we will fall in love… therefore, a break up might be inevitable. Maybe we should end it now, to avoid the hurt feelings and the sense of obligation to stay together, for this baby, that will come later…"

Thus ended the second biggest romantic relationship of my life.

* * *

My first kiss

So, I know I'm a little old to be having a first crush. It's not even, really, a _first_ crush… just the first one I think I might act on. I mean, I've liked boys I met in school, or in foster homes… but it was idle, pre-pubescent longing. Post-pubescent Sara wasn't really interested in the opposite sex, or the same sex, for that matter—until now. He has dark brown curls, dark brown eyes, and dimples like nobody's business.

He's in my AP Chem class, and he's good at science, but terrible at math. Anytime math comes up in a lab, he turns to me with desperation in his eyes, and I smile good-naturedly and do the arithmetic so he doesn't have to. He's not really a science nerd, but he's not anything else, either… he's somehow managed to fall into a neutral category that I had hitherto not known existed in high school, but it was appealing. Maybe I could be neutral, instead of half-intimidating, half-nerd. It seemed like the no-categories fell off the map, and anonymity was appealing.

Being Tyler's lab partner gave me an excuse to be close to him every day, and I found myself longing for the last class of the day so that we could stand together in the crowded lab station, peering at our experiment, our faces close together. He challenged me, more than the assignments would have normally—while we watched for results, he would go off about hypothetical scenarios and theories—what would you find on the inside of an atom, if you could prevent the explosion that splitting one would cause? I would always be surprised when the bell rang, feeling as if we'd hardly had ten minutes together…

He didn't ask me to homecoming, although I didn't hear any gossip that he had asked anyone else… Maybe neutrals didn't participate in school events, like the rebels or the more nerdy of the nerds… I didn't let it disappoint me, but instead started to broaden our interests. He wasn't in my AP English class, but he should have been… I found myself describing the novels we were reading, and the literary analysis we did every day with a passion, and he seemed involved, interested, excited… I caught some of my own passion in his eyes, but his cheeks flushed red when our eyes caught each other, and he changed the subject.

That was when my crush became something I thought I would do something about. He didn't seem to care that I only owned two pairs of jeans, one covered in holes, or that my hair was never done up like the other girls'… and I swear, in that moment, as we dissected A Doll's House and discussed Nora's choice, he had wanted to kiss me. It's very strange that that should be the play we were reading… I tried very hard to distance myself from it, as I read. Henrik Ibsen didn't really explore the role of the children… I thought she was married to a horrible man, and lived much like a child herself, but she had given birth—the act alone should create some sense of responsibility in her, shouldn't it? Just because you have a bad husband, doesn't mean you can just leave the children to fend for themselves. If she wanted to leave, that was fine… but she should have taken her children. She should have been a mother.

Tyler disagrees, and is surprised at my take. "She can't take care of them, she's so crippled by the way she's been treated and traded that she's a child herself, in a lot of ways. Children shouldn't have children and, asshole that her husband was, he was an adult, at least."

I nod, removing myself from the midst of it. My mother killed my father—she didn't leave him. Neither of my parents had been adults, after all… I was taking the play too personally. I liked that he seemed to have a high respect for women, at least.

So when he invited me over to his house for New Year's, I had to temper my reaction so that I did not agree before gaining permission. If it wasn't granted, I would probably go anyway… but maybe not. The last thing I needed was a cop showing up at Tyler's looking for the run-away foster child. He grinned though, seeing that I was excited, and proceeded to tell me all his plans. He had several friends coming over—I knew a few by name, but most of them were new to me. They were going to watch movies, play with his dad's pool table, eat their way through as many pizzas as they could before midnight…and bring in the New Year. From the moment he asked me, the thought was never far from the front of my mind. I didn't know if it was a date, but I knew that I wanted it to be. I hoped he did too.

I asked Marlene—Jim was prone to thinking that being outside the house after nine in the evening meant you were up to no good. I told her that parents and other girls would be there—which he had said they would be—and she consented, saying that it _was_ New Year's, after all. I could have jumped for joy. I spent a little of my hoarded Chucky Cheese money to buy myself a new shirt, but left my hair in it's typical ponytail. I didn't want to seem like I was trying too hard… my newer jeans, without the holes, were still in good shape. I didn't feel embarrassed wearing them. And then, finally, it was 7:30 and I could start walking. It was chilly out, cold even, and I pulled on a coat before leaving, even hugging Marlene and thanking her again before I left. I got to his house just before eight, grateful that there weren't any other cars parked outside. I didn't want to emphasize to his friends that I had had to walk over…

He opened the door, smiling, when I got there, and dragged me inside. Several others were there, and we sat on the couch—he sat next to me. More people arrived, and then the pizza. His mom brought in paper plates and plastic cups, and 2 liter bottles of soda. I felt my heart throb unexpectedly as I looked at the woman—this was a life and a level of consideration and mothering that I had not often been privy to. I had a lot of fun—felt like these were people I could be friends with, even… I didn't really feel like I could have a lot of friends, before this… I didn't feel like I could laugh with people so easily.

Nearing midnight, I started to get nervous. It was then that I realized that there were an equal number of guys and girls, and wondered if I was here as his date… he'd been close to my side all night. I got the strangest feeling of butterflies in my stomach—something I had read about but had not really ever experienced to its full capacity. I felt like I was going to be sick… but it was a good feeling, the sickness… I wanted to keep that flighty, frenzied feeling.

We watched as the ball dropped, counting down from ten with more excitement than we knew what to do with, and after the shouts of "Happy New Year!" I felt his fingers, gentle on my cheek, as he turned my face to him and pressed our lips together. Heat and excitement and chills ran through my body all in the same moment, and a fluttering happiness settled into a deep, pervading contentment in my chest. We broke apart, and I was suddenly shy… he had kissed me in front of eight other people. But it only took a second to realize that each of them had kissed at midnight as well, and that their attentions were anything but on Tyler and me.

I felt a smile creep over my face—I didn't usually smile widely… I have a gap between my two front teeth that I hate. His right hand slid into my left, linking our fingers together and, as his friends turned the movie they'd paused for the countdown back on, he leaned in and spoke softly, so that no one else could hear him, "You're so beautiful when you smile, Sara. You don't smile enough."

I smiled brighter, despite myself, and he squeezed my hand, settling back into the movie. I was never embarrassed of the gap again.


	6. April 1987

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine. :)

* * *

Chapter 5: April 1987

Daddy

Laura's lease was up two months before mine, and so she and Amber moved into the apartment Becky and I had picked out together, Amber setting up her room in the guest room my mother had slept in. We went apartment hunting on the weekends… with our combined incomes, we could afford a three bedroom in a decent neighborhood. The baby would sleep in Laura's room, or mine, depending on whose night it was to get up, until it was old enough to share a room with Amber. We didn't think further ahead than that, and by the time the lease was up on my apartment, we had moved all our things into a new apartment. We had managed to find an apartment with a small den, big enough for a desk and some filing cabinets. We set up Amber's old crib and changing table there, and were quite pleased with our choice in apartment.

By the time we had moved in, it was April and Amber's birthday was coming up. Laura was seven months pregnant, and even though we had stopped being a couple, we were an extremely happy little family. Laura and I's minds worked well together, and we had painted and redecorated and planned Amber's party in happy synchrony. Amber was excited to have me there all the time, and one day, while I was reading her a bedtime story, I caught her staring at me.

"What's wrong, Amber? Don't you like the story?"

"Are you my daddy now?" She asked him very plainly, her forehead and lips puckering in concentration.

I hedged, stalling for time, and wanting to understand the basis of her question. "Why do you ask, sweetheart?"

"I didn't think I had a daddy, but then my friend Aimee told me that a daddy is someone who lives with you, and tucks you in at night, and buys you presents, and gives you hugs and kisses, and gets mad at you when you don't listen, and—"

I felt the corner of my mouth turn up, knowing she would probably keep going if I let her, but I wasn't sure what to say. "Well, I do do all those things. Amber, honey… there are really two meanings to the word 'daddy,' did you know that?" She shakes her head, and I pull her into my lap where I'm sitting at the side of her bed, the book long forgotten. "Well, sometimes a daddy means the person who helped the mommy make the baby. You know how Mommy is having a baby?" She nods, her eyes focused tightly on mine. "Well, I'm that baby's daddy… I helped your mommy make it. But there's another way to be a daddy. If you love a child, and you take care of her, and you tuck her in, and kiss her, and check for monsters under the bed…all those things that we do together… well, that's a way to be a daddy too. I didn't help your mommy make you, sweetheart, but I love you as if I had… Do you understand?"

She kept her eyes locked on mine, and I could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she processed the concept, and then she nodded. "So… should I stop calling you Gil and call you Daddy now?"

My mouth opened in surprise, and once again, I didn't know how to answer. Laura's voice came from Amber's doorway. "If you want to. You don't have to call him Daddy, Amber, but like Gil said, he does all the things a good daddy does… If…" he eyes turned from Amber's, catching mine instead. "If you want to call him daddy, you can."

I hadn't even known I had wanted such a thing until the great smile broke out across my face. I looked to Amber, to gauge her reaction, and she was smiling up at me. "Will you finish my story… daddy?"

And so I tucked her into bed, scooped the book up from the floor, and began to read, an errant tear sneaking out the corner of my eye and down my cheek before I could help myself. I trembled when I felt her tiny hands brush it aside, and her soft voice trying to comfort me. "It's okay daddy, the prince will kiss her and she'll wake up! …It's only a story." I had never, ever, been happier.

* * *

AP Tests and Prom. Ugh.

April of my sophomore year… I managed to pay for the tests of the classes I had this year so I spent most of April studying. Tyler said he missed me, but we'd meet at his house and he'd help me study. It was the first time I felt taken care of since before I could remember… his mom loved me. As soon as I arrived she'd be leading me into the kitchen and pouring both Tyler and I a glass of milk to have with the cookies or the brownies or the pie she'd made that day, and we'd sit at the dining room table, stomachs and hearts full, trying to fill up my mind as well.

On the rare occasions she would leave, to go shopping or run an errand, hormones would kick into overdrive and we'd be in his bedroom by the time she rounded the corner at the end of his block. Not that Tyler was just some creepy perv… after we'd kissed at New Year's, he hadn't kissed me again for a week. We didn't have a real make out session until the end of February (I had had to babysit the new foster baby so Marlene and Jim could go out on Valentine's Day, so we hadn't gotten one…), and by April he would touch me over my clothes. I wanted him to touch me under them…under my shirt, at least… but he was slow and meticulous and respectful. He said that teenagers let their hormones get ahead of their brains and made bad decisions… and he didn't want one moment with me to be a bad decision.

I was so in love I didn't feel like there was room for anything else inside me anymore. I stopped having nightmares about my parents, I stopped thinking about my parents in everyday contexts—the local college put on a performance of A Doll's House and, remembering our conversation in the lab, he took me to it. I didn't see myself, or my mother, in Nora—I just saw a sad woman in a sad life. For once, I didn't feel like my life was the saddest.

Tyler didn't know about my parents, but he knew that I lived in foster care and how scared I was of getting moved from house to house. I was even more scared now—I had been lucky to stay in Tomales Bay when they moved me around, but if need arose, they could send me anywhere in the state. I didn't want to be moved away from Tyler for anything…

His mom had gone out shopping and I had my head on his chest, lying in his bed, his fingers playing with my hair. He had just stopped the most frantic make out session we'd ever had, and we were both still coming down, the sexual tension—though new to both of us—was thick in the air.

"Sara, did you… did you want to go to Prom?"

My eyes narrowed. "We're sophomores…"

"No, I know, but… based on credits, you're a junior. You'll only have next year's prom if you don't go this year… I'm sure they'd make an exception for you."

I bite my bottom lip, my eyes turning to look up at him, though the way I'm laying makes that difficult. "I don't know if… I wouldn't have a dress, Ty."

He smiled, bending his neck low to kiss me. "Well, my sister's old prom dress is still in the closet… or, or… you have your Chucky Cheese money." My mouth opens, but he covers it softly with his again. Pulling back, he chuckles at the look on my face. "I know you're saving it up, I know… but you're turning sixteen in September, and then you'll be able to work longer hours, I'm sure they'll give you a pay raise. You could even just apply somewhere else that pays better… I bet we could find one that wouldn't cost you too much."

I watch his eyes carefully. "Why are you so worried about going to Prom…?"

"I'm not… not… not prom specifically." He averts his eyes, and I immediately worry.

"Then… what?" I kiss him almost frantically, and he returns it soothingly, running his fingers through my hair again.

"I was just… thinking about how next year is your last year and… and this one is almost over. And if you get enough aid, which you probably will, you won't have to wait to go to school for a year. You're… you're going to be gone so soon. I don't want to miss anything with you…"

I'm kissing him again, passionately and desperately, and he moans softly against my mouth, his hands gripping my hips tightly. I know I'm testing his resolve, but I don't stop—I want to break it, I want to have his hands all over my body. I know it won't be a mistake. His hands slide up my sides, under my shirt, and I gasp at the contact, even though he hasn't passed my love handles yet. My hands tangle in his delicate curls and he rolls us over, so he's on top, his hands sliding up further—they stop at my ribs and I groan in impatience, which makes him laugh against my lips and pull back.

"Impatient much?"

I feel a blush rise in my cheeks, but I can't bring myself to care about it. Through gasping breaths, I accuse him. "You…are such…a tease!"

He half smiles. "My mom will be home soon, Sara."

Through gritted teeth. "What if I don't care?"

He laughs, and then we hear his mother's car stop in the driveway and her car door as she gets out to open the garage. We both sigh heavily and make our way back out to the dining room, pretending to study as we fix our hair and steady our breathing. Before she walks in, he leans over to me.

"I promise, next time we're alone… I won't hesitate."

My face flames red, and the door swings open, his mother's arms full of groceries.

"Ty, hon, could you help me?"

So we both rise and move to free her of her burden, and she thanks us sweetly, and we return to studying. Or pretending to study. After the torture he's been forcing me to endure for months, who on earth could focus on the periodic table?


	7. June 1987

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, not mine.

* * *

Chapter 6: June 1987

A boy. June 13th. A boy.

Amber and I sat in the waiting room, waiting for Laura's sister to arrive. I had wanted to be there for the birth, but Laura gave me a look when I said that. I didn't know if my request was abnormal, or whether she personally wasn't comfortable with it, but I resigned myself to sitting in the waiting room with… with my daughter. Those words made me smile, and we waited, coloring in her My Little Pony coloring book.

It was a short labor, or so the nurses told us, as they led us back to see her. She looked tired, and flushed, but was beaming, a tiny body wrapped in a blanket and cradled in her arms.

"A boy!" She croaked out, as soon as she saw me, and my face lit up. A boy. A boy.

I swung Amber up in my arms and moved to sit on the side of her bed, gently, letting Amber peer over and see the little being that had now entered our family. She smiles, and seems at a loss for words, and I understand—I'm blown away too. I set her into a chair at the bedside and Laura passes me _my son_. I tremble at this truth, and look into his eyes. _My eyes_. Laura told me that it didn't mean anything… that his eyes could change color up to a year, but somehow I just _know_ that they're mine… that they won't change. He already has a soft blonde feathering of hair on his head, and she tells me and Amber that he looks just like she did, when she was born. Amber's eyes are wide, and mine are blinking back tears. Somehow, without really even trying, I had stumbled upon a life and a family and more fulfillment than I had ever dreamed of.

We named him Joshua David, Joshua after her father, David after mine. My mother was flying up in a week to meet her grandchild, and I worried deeply what her reaction would be to my lifestyle this time. But at least I was confident that this woman would not have said yes if I'd done the honorable thing… and that helped free me of some of my guilt. We weren't living in my mother's time anymore, and I wasn't ashamed of my family… I was happy, proud, contented. Surely she would see that, and be happy for me too?

Well, even if she wasn't, I was more than an adult now… and she would just have to live with it, I supposed. I spent a lot of the time when Laura and Joshua were sleeping teaching Amber some basic signs so she could talk to my mother, whom she was already calling 'Gramma Grissom.' I grinned. She ought to like that… I'd let Amber soften her up, before we got into the marriage argument.

And when Joshua was awake, Laura and I were practically fighting over who would get to hold him. I wasn't as good at it as she was… he quieted more quickly when she rocked him, but I learned quickly, and he liked me. I could see it in his eyes, when we looked at each other—recognition mixed with affection. My son loved me. My son liked me. My son. I was a father…

Laura's nervousness over my mother coming reminded me of Becky's nervousness, which was bitter sweet. I still missed Becky, on the rare occasions I thought of her, but it was hard to spare too much thought to her… I had so much going for me now. The only improvement I could have imagined was being madly in love with Laura, but I would take what I could get… life isn't perfect, but Amber and Joshua were, and Laura and I were practical people. When my mother arrived, Laura slid gingerly out of bed, still in pajamas and a robe, but of course my mother understood. They embraced, and my mother held Joshua every moment she could, singing to him and bouncing him and feeding him and rocking him. Amber was nervous too, but my mother practically cried she was so happy to see the little girl singing 'Gramma' when she referred to her. This week went better than the last time she had visited, and she didn't ask me about marriage or religion, she just asked if I was happy, and if this was what I wanted.

It was.

* * *

Summertime in California

I was happy. Really happy. I didn't really understand at what point I had stopped torturing myself over my past—I wasn't over it, but I didn't relive it constantly—or over my present—Jim and Marlene were like heaven compared to some of the people I'd stayed with—or my future—I got a 5 on every AP test I had taken… five was the highest score you could get. But somehow, that summer was a dream out of a life I'd never known I could have. I was beyond happy. I was blissful.

I worked every day, saving up money for school, and then Ty would come pick me up when I'd finished with work and take me home. I'd shower and change while he talked to Marlene—she'd asked to meet him once I'd started spending so much time with him, and they'd seemed to hit it off. All I cared about was that they let me keep seeing him. Then we would leave, telling Marlene that we were going to a movie or his house or someone else's… and sometimes we went where we said we were going, but sometimes we would drive into the country and find some place to park.

We hadn't had sex yet. He still wouldn't touch underneath my underwear, and would get mad at me if I tried to cross the line with him. He wanted everything to be slow, so that it meant more… so that we had individual milestones in our relationship, not just one night where everything happened. He wanted each new discovery distinct and beautiful in his mind. Well, who could argue with logic like that? With words like that, whispered softly while he holds you like you've never been held in your life? When you feel safe in a world that used to be scary, what real argument can be made?

Still, it was a summer of warmth… of long walks on the beach, of days off spent in the surf, scantily clad in our bathing suits, of soft touches and hard kisses and the constant deepening feeling too much love to contain between the two of us. We felt as though it spilt forth from us in waves, so great was the volume of our emotion. We would lie on the beach, at night, curled up in a blanket, and marvel at the sheer size of what we felt.

I liked to talk about our first time… when it would be or where… whether it would be spontaneous or planned, and the rightness of it, when it finally happened. Tyler indulged me, enjoying my longing for him even if he wouldn't yet partake of it. He would run his fingers under my shirt, under the blanket, talking about how perfect he would make it for me… it would be when we were both ready… with candles and rose petals and no parents to be listening for… His hands would cup me, his fingers pinching softly, and I would moan softly at first, wanting to listen. Before long, however, I would push him into the sand and kiss him, and our bodies would move in perfect time together, despite the clothes that kept us apart, our memories fresh with the images his words had conjured up.

I started bringing books with me, to read aloud to him after we finished. I would lie on top of him, my hair messy from our interaction, the book resting open on his chest as I recited the words softly beneath a star-strewn sky. When he would get too sleepy to process my words, he would stop me, and we could just hold each other until it was time for me to be dropped at home.

I could not have imagined, younger than sixteen though I was, ever loving another man the way I loved him. I knew, _knew_, without a doubt, that even if he died tomorrow, I would spend the rest of my life loving him. I just didn't know how I was going to leave him in a year.


	8. August 1987

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or anything CSI related.

A/N: Also, I've realized in proof-reading that I slip into third person every once and a while. Bad habit. If I do, please just ignore. I didn't use a beta, so the mistakes are mine!

* * *

Chapter 7: August 1987

The best birthday of my life.

I turned 31, a father of two, and a CSI level 3. I had everything in the world at my fingertips, and I did not even find myself looking at other women. Laura and I weren't intimate, but we were a family, we had companionship, and sex was not so overwhelming a need that I felt myself looking elsewhere—it just didn't occur to me. I took the day off to bring Amber to her new preschool room. It was the middle of the week, but she'd been staying home with Laura for a few days. She didn't want to go to school when Joshua got to stay home with her mom, but when I said I'd take her and stay for a little while, she'd finally agreed to give Preschool a chance.

Laura, for her part, looked relieved to have Amber out of the house so she could sleep when Joshua did and finally catch up on rest. I was happy to give that to her. We loaded up in the car, a Barbie backpack in tow, and I talked to her about how much fun she was going to have today as we drove over. She looked like she wasn't ready to say she didn't believe me, but she was definitely a skeptic. I chuckled—I of all people could hardly blame the child for wanting proof. We parked, and that was when apprehension changed to fear in her eyes. I smiled reassuringly and helped her climb out of her seat. Then I kneeled down in front of her, one hand clutching the little Barbie handle of her backpack.

"Amber, honey, I know this is new… and because it's new, it's scary. It's okay to be scared, you know." She looked at the ground, avoiding my gaze, so I continued. "You know, I've had to start at new schools before…"

Her eyes raised to mine, hesitantly, and mine greeted hers warmly. "You… you did?"

I nod, very seriously. "I switched schools lots of times. I was always scared, at first, but then I was always glad afterwards, when I realized how much fun I would have missed, just because I was scared…"

"But Joshua—"

"Joshua is a baby, honey. You're a big girl." Her face screwed up in a scowl. I couldn't help but smile at how sweet her frustration was. "Listen, here's what we'll do, okay? We'll go inside, and I'll talk to your teacher… watch while you see the room, meet some friends... maybe you could tell your new teacher about Joshua. I bet she'll be excited."

The lines across her face smoothed. "You really think she'll be excited?"

I grin. "I _know_ she will, sweetheart. Should we go inside…?"

She nods, very bravely, and takes my hand. Once inside, I follow signs to her preschool room and step inside. A pleasant woman, older than me, but not by much, greets us. "Hello. Can I help you?"

I smile, and shake her hand, never letting my left break from Amber's. "I'm Gil Grissom, this is my daughter Amber. She was supposed to start Monday but… I think we needed a few more days at home."

She smiles brightly, and bends down to Amber's level. "Hi Amber, my name is Miss Marie. I really like your Barbie backpack… is it new?"

Amber nods, turning to bury her face in my leg. I chuckle and bend down too, breaking our hand-holding to rest my hand on her back. "Why don't you tell Miss Marie why you wanted to stay home?"

She looks from me to her teacher, and then says shyly, "My mommy just had a baby."

Miss Marie's eyes light up. "Oh! How exciting for you Amber! Are you a big sister now?"

She nods, unable to hide her smile. "His name is Joshua and he's smelly sometimes, but I'm gonna be a good big sister and teach him not to be so smelly. My gramma came to see him, and me, and she says she loves me. My gramma can't hear you, but she talks with her hands sometimes, and that helps."

Miss Marie and I both laugh, and then she reaches out for Amber's hand. "Can I show you where you can hang up your pretty new backpack and your sweater? We were just about to do some finger painting…"

Silly man that I am, having fallen into fatherhood rather than stepped into it, I did not anticipate how hard it would be, for me, to see how easy it was for her to leave me. She ran and gave me a hug and a wet kiss on my cheek, and then bounced to the table where other children were ready in their paint smocks. I tell her I'll see her later, and to have a great day, and I say goodbye to her teacher… I make it to the car, at least, before I'm drawing in calming breaths and blinking my eyes furiously. I didn't want her to be able to let go so easily…

I drove home, frustrated with my own ridiculousness, and check on Laura and Joshua, both sound asleep in their respective beds. I frown, seeing Joshua lying on his tummy. Laura's told me that they want babies to sleep on their tummies to prevent the back of their head from flattening from laying in the same position all the time… but it worries me. He has such limited mobility, what if he gets trapped with his face into the blankets and can't breathe?

With a nervousness bordering on real panic, I gingerly rotate his little body until he's lying on his back, and then I tuck his blankets around him, to make sure he feels safe. Maybe he'll have a flat head and maybe babies are supposed to sleep on their tummies… but too many suffocation autopsies, which had turned out to be terrible accidents, made me wary. An infant needs less help to restrict movement, let's just leave it at that.

I fell asleep on the couch—I wanted to be wide awake for tonight. Amber had been teasing me for weeks about the great present she had gotten me, and I wanted to be awake for the celebration. Somehow, even though I did nothing on that day… dropped my daughter at preschool, fed and changed Joshua when he woke, so that Laura could stay asleep, took a nap… it was nothing amazing, but it was everything to me. Happy Birthday.

* * *

Back to school

The beginning of our Junior year—my Senior year—was marked by tragedy. A girl we'd gone to school with—she'd been in our AP Chem class—had committed suicide the day before school started. School let out early that first Friday so that people could go to the funeral. I had to spend some of my money, to have something nice to wear… but I thought she deserved that much. Despite school being let out, there weren't many students there. Ty and I stood in back, hand in hand, tears falling silently down our faces. It wasn't a school night, and I'd taken work off, so we ran to the beach, reveling in the fact that it was still warm enough to enjoy… warm enough to make us forget about whatever we didn't do that wasn't enough to save someone who we hadn't even known was suffering.

How do you spend an hour with someone every day for ten months and not know they want to die?

We stopped in our usual spot—a stretch of beach that seemed isolated, no hotels or homes nearby, and out of the normal tourist traps… just before the sand turned to brush and thick undergrowth, there was an old wooden pier. In the five-foot stretch of sand hidden between the pier and the vegetation, we settled into each other's arms, desperate in our grief and our longing to be vindicated—to not be responsible for her death.

We didn't make love—"Not yet," he whispered to me softly, even as I lay beneath him, naked except for the blanket that surrounded us. He slid a single finger slowly into my trembling body, and groaned himself at the sensation of me tightening and my hips rising up to meet his hand. We had done this before… a little. He had told me he wanted me to feel good—he wouldn't let me touch him until he could figure me out, he said. And it did feel good—it felt amazing… but from the trashy romance novels Marlene read and which I had stooped to reading when I realized they were the only books in the house, it wasn't an orgasm. There was no earth-shattering release. Just… pleasure and, eventually, deep contentment. It had frustrated him for over a month now.

Tonight, he made sure I was thoroughly built up before he even tried to touch me there. He must have felt like, with all the grief we'd endured, I needed it more tonight than I ever had. He assaulted my neck, breasts, stomach with kisses, biting and dragging his tongue until I was senseless with desire, his name spilling from my lips incoherently. He played his tongue over the skin at the waistband to my underwear, and finally slid them down, kissing up my inner thighs. I gasped out loud, a single word punctuating the frenzied breathing—"Please…"

That was when he had come back up to me, breathing his "not yet" into my ear as his finger slid inside me. He moved slowly, pushing me to the point of senselessness again before he slowly added another finger, starting slow again and letting it build. I was moaning out loud now, lost in the feel of him and the scent of him and the sound of his own labored breathing, completely unconcerned with our semi-public location. His lips were already at my thighs again before I had realized he had moved—I didn't have time to be nervous, though I know I would have been if given the opportunity—and then his tongue was on me, the fingers rocking harder than they ever had, and I was blown into reckless, flying oblivion, screaming his name to the waves and the stars and the night.

I hadn't even realized what had happened until I felt myself coming down, still panting, his lips placing gentle kisses across my face and over my neck and shoulders. "I… Ty, I…"

I could hear the smile in his voice. "I know, Sara! I've… god, I've never been so happy. You… you are so beautiful. I love you."

I swallowed hard, our eyes meeting in the darkness, despite the cloud of satisfaction that still swirled in mine. I kissed him as fiercely as I knew how, rolling over on top of him and tugging his boxers from his hips without hesitation. He attempted to protest, but my hand on him silenced him—or rather, made him louder, but certainly less focused. I moaned into his ear as I moved my hand over him, listening for what he liked, repeating over and over, "I love you. I love you so much, Ty. You're everything, you're my whole world, I love you, I love you, I love you."

It surprised me when his hips rocked up and his hands gripped into my hair, _my_ name piercing the night this time. It sent shivers down my body, and I giggled. His eyes opened slowly, a lazy, contented smile crossing those beautiful lips, his eyes clouded but curious. I giggled again. He rolled his eyes playfully, but perhaps a little embarrassed. "What are you laughing at?"

I giggle again. "I dunno… everything seems funnier than normal…" I giggle. "That was… really easy. I thought I would... have to work at least as hard as you did…"

He chuckled, pulling me tight to his body but moving his lower half to one side, so I wouldn't get anything…_icky_…on me. "No, I always knew you'd find it way too easy… that's why I made you wait. I wanted… I wanted you to feel good, first. I love you, Sara. Do you have any idea how much I love you?"

I smile, feeling happiness spreading from my center to every extreme—the tips of my fingers and toes—the end of each strand of hair. "I do, because I love you like that too. More than anything. More than my whole self, Ty. I love you, I love you, I love you, I—"

His kiss interrupted me, but I think he understood.


	9. September 1987

Disclaimer: :( I don't own them... -sigh-

A/N: Please review, it's my first posted fic and my self esteem needs a boost!

* * *

Chapter 8: September 1987

I can't believe I lost a body

It was a tough scene, I'd just finished pulling a double, and I was ready to go home, eat with my children, and get some much-needed rest. The coroner had been called to another body at another scene moments before we had even been allowed to touch the body, and so its transport fell to me. I was the lead CSI on the case. She was a sixteen year old girl, beaten and raped and left to die in an alley… and she had. It hit everyone hard when it was someone so young… she had fought hard, too. I just hoped that her fight left behind some evidence—I just hoped we could catch the guy who did this to her.

The problem was not only the long hours I'd worked, but that Amber had a fall program tonight… her preschool would be singing songs for the parents, followed by cookies and juice. She'd been talking about it for two, maybe even three, weeks… I wasn't going to miss it, no matter how many hours I had worked.

Unfortunately, Dr. Gerard radioed then, apologizing, knowing how long I'd been on duty, but requesting I go to a scene downtown—I didn't need to process, just give my expert entomological opinion on the bugs found on the body. They didn't really have anyone else, so I sighed, dropping the body off at the lab and hastily filling out the case information before I took off to the new scene, my eyes scratchy and red. I radioed back to the lab that if Laura called, would they please explain to her why I wasn't home, and that I wasn't dead? The only response I was given was laughter.

It was a confusing, complex scene. At first, the timeline seemed to be all off—certain insects in some places, but others, from entire other stages in decomposition, on other places on the body. The explanation could not be the bugs, I reasoned, and so I began processing the scene to determine the cause. An hour later, they had determined that the rain from a few nights before had caused water to pool around half the victim's body and had frozen that way, probably only unthawing in the last twelve hours, based on the temperatures in the area. I was exhausted.

I passed this evidence to the lead CSI on the case and headed directly home, thinking that I might get an hour of sleep before I had to get up for Amber's program. Well, it was better than nothing… and then I could sleep afterward, and by the time I returned to work the next day, they would probably have results on the evidence from my case… a definite COD on the girl… maybe they would already know who had killed her. It was on that happy note that I stumbled into the apartment, laying an exhausted kiss on the forehead of each member of my family before collapsing in bed.

"Laura?" I called from bed, wanting to be certain I wouldn't miss her program.

"Yes, Gil?" She asked from the doorway, eyebrows raised.

"I, uh… I just need an hour. Don't let me miss her program… wake me up…"

She nodded, pulling the door closed. "I won't let you miss it, Gil. Get some rest…"

It felt like I had barely closed my eyes when I was being gently shaken awake. By the time I had dressed and made it out to the kitchen, Laura was pushing a mug of hot coffee into my fingers. Amber was prancing around the living room in her new program dress, and Joshua was on a blanket on the floor, kicking his feet idly. I smile, realizing it feels like days since I've had any time with these people. After the shift I pulled, I won't be able to work at my normal time tomorrow… maybe we should take Joshua and Amber to the park. Or I could take them, and Laura could get some sleep… she looks almost as tired as me.

Laura returns from her bedroom, having hastily changed clothes, and I pour my coffee into a closed thermos and then sweep Joshua up from the floor, wrapping his blankets around him. In a matter of moments, we're out the door and piling into the car.

The program was perfect—sweet and cute and very preschool. I ask Laura if her Kindergarteners are like Amber's age group, and she chuckles. "They're a little more advanced than three and four year olds, Gil…"

I shake my head, turning to lock eyes with my daughter, who waves at me from the risers, even though she shouldn't be, and then signs 'I love you'. I grin and sign it back. "She's pretty advanced in her own right."

Despite my fervent belief that I will be able to sleep in the next day and spend some time with my children, I'm woken at four thirty by Dr. Gerard, frantically asking me something about a body… the body of the girl… the body I transported. I blink blearily, sitting up in my bed, despite the cold of the air outside my blankets.

"Phil, I dropped it off before I went to consult on Olson's scene, with the bugs… I filled out all the paperwork and everything."

"Well, the body is not here, Gil, so I suggest you get your ass down here and find it."

So, I went in and, after some hours, we located the body. I had filled out the wrong case numbers, and she had been transferred to the next county over—Luckily, they had noticed the mistake and hadn't touched her, so all evidence was preserved. Gerard talked to me in his office, but I felt a little closer to my mentor's level now. I knew what I was doing, and my mistake had been minor. Having a CSI at the end of a double transport a body and fill out paperwork they're unfamiliar with because it isn't their job, before sending them off as a consult on yet another case, without sleep… He could only expect human error when he pushed that hard, expected that much. To my great astonishment, he agreed with me. I took the next day and night off and received no argument.

Finally, some time with my family.

* * *

Sweet Sixteen

Jim and Marlene remembered my birthday this year, and with a jolt of surprise I realized that I'd been in one home for over a year now. I'd never stayed in one place for so long… My heart swelled at the thought, and I hugged them both warmly for the cake she had baked and the new clothes I had received. Jim had even bought me a small book of Shakespearian Sonnets—he said he'd noticed me looking for something to read, but he didn't think a sixteen year old should be reading romance novels. I'd smiled and blushed, not wishing to inform him that Shakespeare had hardly been a prude, and felt really, really good on my birthday.

Tyler had promised me a night out, but Marlene had wanted to cook, so he came over and ate with us, which was a first. Jim talked to him about fishing and sports, and though Tyler was not big on either thing, he managed to remember that Jim liked the Raiders rather than the 49'ers, and the conversation went smoothly. The next night, he brought me to his house, where I unexpectedly had dinner waiting for me, and another cake.

"Sara, sweetheart, happy birthday!" his mother said as I entered, pulling me into an affectionate hug. "Sweet Sixteen, never been kissed?" She asked me playfully, and my blush and the awkward flickering of my eyes to Tyler was enough to make her laugh and glance at her son, who chuckled too. I failed to see the humor, but I appreciated her kindness. I ate with his family, and I didn't feel nervous or judged… I just felt like they knew I was important to him, and that made me important too.

It was finally the third night, two days after my actual birthday, that he got around to taking me out to eat. I wore the black dress I'd bought for the funeral, but it had better memories attached to it—I'd had to shake the sand out of it for nearly fifteen minutes before I could stick it in the washing machine. We ate, we went to a movie, and we ended the night on our spot on the beach. I chuckled softly, much more at ease with discussing our sex life now that we appeared to have one, even if it was technically not yet consummated. "So what, you think you can get some every time you bring me here?"

He laughed, wrapping his arms around me and burying his face in my hair. "I just feel at home here… the best memories of my life are here."

I turn my head and kiss him, softly, but he pulls away. "You're leaving in less than a year…"

"I'll still be in town, working. Maybe Jim and Marlene will still want to keep me, after I graduate…"

"You have more than enough money saved to keep you from spending an extra year here… You know you're going away. You already have the applications in your backpack."

I swallow hard, wondering if I should have hidden that. "It's just to see if I get in… what kind of aid I can get. If I don't get accepted, or if I can't get enough aid… well, then, at least I know where I stand…"

"What if… What if you get accepted, with a full ride and then some… excess aid for living expenses? Are you telling me you wouldn't go?"

I bite my bottom lip. How could I be sure I would have the same golden opportunity the following year? I would have to take it, wouldn't I? My silence betrays my assent.

"I'm… Sara, I'm afraid of what I'm going to do, when you leave… I don't know how to live without you anymore."

He looked sad, desperate, wracked with worry and pain. I search for the answer to wipe the distortion from his features. "You could… you could come to Harvard the next year. We can survive a year apart, I know we can."

He scoffed. "You know I couldn't get into Harvard, Sara. Even if I somehow managed to… my parents can't afford to send me out of state. They make too much money for me to get grants… I'm stuck in California, unless I want to skip school altogether to follow you…"

I look down. He couldn't sacrifice school for me—he was brilliant. He was going to do so much in this life… but for the first time, I realized that it might not be possible for me to be a part of that brilliance. I had avoided considering this problem because I loved how I felt, enveloped in the warm and loving glow that was everything he was… but the light flickered feebly now, like a dying flame, and I realized that I was the moon to his sun. I wasn't even visible without him shining on me. How was I going to leave him?

I didn't realize that tears were streaming down my cheeks until I felt him brushing them aside, his face repentant. "I'm sorry Sara. Don't cry, honey. We'll figure something out. We will, I promise. Don't cry, sweety, please?"

I cried myself sick that night, my fists pounding weakly into his chest, unable to see a way out of this. I couldn't not go to school… couldn't give up an opportunity if I was given one… I only had one shot in this world and it was working my ass off and taking every opening I could find. He had to understand that, didn't he? He had to understand that I couldn't end up some housewife, like my mother, unable to support herself and so unable to leave a man who beat her and her children? It was not that I thought he would ever do such things… I just couldn't let myself be so powerless.

I believe this is called an impasse.


	10. November 1987

Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would be doing better things than writing about them...

* * *

Chapter 9: November 1987

The first day of hell—the end of my life…

I woke up early—Thanksgiving was in a few days, and my mother was flying out again. I was surprised she would make the trip—it was expensive and flying made her joints hurt—but then again, she hadn't had grandchildren to fly out to see before, so I guess it made sense. Anticipating her stay, however, I was going to use my day off to clean the apartment. I knew that if I didn't do it, Laura would force herself to do it and she'd been exhausted since she gave birth. It had been months, but she was suffering more than she let on. She'd gotten an infection from the stitches after she had torn… and that was just the beginning of her complications.

I dragged myself up, telling myself that if I could finish scrubbing the bathroom before everyone else got up for breakfast then I'd be half done—breakfast clean up could just be done a little more thoroughly, and after that it was small things—vacuuming and dusting and washing windows. Easy.

I start a pot of coffee, reveling in the silence of the morning, and stop in the bathroom. While I'm washing my hands, I think about Amber and Joshua, and I can't help but sneak a peek at them sleeping before I get to work. So I move to the closest door—Amber's—and peer in, watching as her little chest rises and falls softly in sleep. Her breathing is thicker than normal… I wonder if she's catching a cold. When she wakes up we'll have to see if she needs some cold medicine to clear out her sinuses. I move next to the den, on the other side of Laura's room, and peer in. He's so still in sleep, he must be dreaming peacefully. I move forward, just wanting a closer look, to see if I can guess what he's dreaming…

Oh God. My heart falls through my chest and away from my body, and I am left with nothing…nothing. I pull him from the crib anxiously, noticing that he's already a little blue. "Laura! Oh God! Laura!" I scream, laying him on the floor and trying desperately in my panic to remember infant CPR—two fingers, heart compressions, but wait… check his pulse, check his breath… there's neither, and tears are streaming down my face as I blow air into his lifeless body, watching as his chest rises and falls and yet he doesn't move and doesn't react.

Distantly I am aware that Laura's on the phone, shouting, speaking urgently, but I don't have a thought to spare for that now. I count as my fingers pump blood through his veins, and I listen to his breathing even though I know there's none to hear, and then my mouth is to his again, desperately inflating his tiny figure like a balloon… a lifeless balloon, but I keep moving, keep pumping, until I feel myself being pulled away from him.

Paramedics take one look at him and pronounce. He's been dead an hour, by their estimation. But that isn't good enough… I've seen paramedics do amazing things with CPR, they can't just give up. Without a liver temp they have no idea how long… they don't know… I struggle away from whoever holds me back so that I can get to my son, my only son, and try to pump the life back into him, but I'm restrained again, a voice in my ear forcing me to terms with what cannot possibly be true—"He's gone. He's gone. There's nothing you can do for him now. He's gone."

I sit and stare at the wall, unaware that tears have not stopped falling since I found him—I'm not really aware of who else is in the room until, with a start, I see the faces of the graveyard shift. They're processing the scene—why would they do that? Suspicious circs? I try to read their faces, but they don't react to me, and I feel a deep, overwhelming anger building up inside of me. I want to scream, kick these people from my home and my mourning and my despair. I want to lash out, beat every one of them, until I can't see their expressionless faces and blank eyes for the blood I've spilled across them…

"Gil?"

I jump, looking up to see Philip. "Gil, we're going to process your apartment, just because you're one of ours, and you can never be too careful. We don't suspect foul play, but we put away a lot of horrible people every day, okay? We're just covering our bases, making sure… protecting you. Why don't you and Laura take Amber to a hotel? Or maybe Amber can stay with a friend of the family, if you two need some time…"

"You're… making sure?"

"Yes, Gil, Is there somewhere for you three to go?"

"You… you have to question me, take my statement, Phil. If… if you're making sure… checking your bases… I, uh, I was getting up early to clean. My mother is coming for Thanksgiving and Laura's stitches…I didn't want… and I made coffee!—why the hell did I need coffee?! Why didn't I check on him right away? Why—"

"Gil, we'll take your statement tomorrow, after you've had a little time, okay? You're… you're not really coherent right now. Come on, let's get you outside, find a place for you and Laura to stay. Amber, sweetheart, come take Daddy's hand and help him outside."

I felt a tiny, warm hand in mine. I did not look down, but I knew that I would follow wherever the hand led me. I had strength for nothing else.

* * *

Thanksgiving… Gobble Gobble.

No school, Ty's visiting his Grandma in L.A. I'm bored out of my mind.

I pull out the book from Jim, wondering whether I'll be able to lose myself in poetry as easily as I do in prose—it requires so much more thought, analytical thinking… I crack open the book, regardless, to a random page, and begin reading softly to myself, my whispered syllables filling up the empty bedroom and the loneliness around me.

I did not read them slowly enough for the words to grasp me deeply, but instead let the sound of them overcome me as I whispered, whispered to myself, over and over.

And then I was crying, tears streaming down my face inexplicably, but the words would not stop pouring from my mouth as I sobbed—I was overcome with a pain larger than myself, bigger and more infinite than all that I was, and I didn't know where it came from, but I let it carry me through the sonnets, until it had worn itself out.

My tears dried, my lips stilled, the memory of the pain real and fresh in my mind. I marked the page where the pain had stopped—where my tears had stopped, and set the book aside. I didn't understand what had happened, but I knew it would be a while before I read the book again.


	11. April 1988, May 1988

Disclaimer: Mine! ...No, wait... still not.

* * *

Chapter 10: April/May 1988

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Philip gave me paid leave—all the sick and vacation time I had built up and never taken… and when it was over, I returned to work, on time every day, efficiently processing every scene and going through the evidence meticulously… but I didn't talk, and I didn't allow myself to lose myself in the work—I didn't deserve any relief, any distraction… I continued to work only because we needed my income, for Amber.

I went through the motions with her too, which wasn't fair—I had loved her just as much as Joshua. If it had been her, instead, I don't think I would have been able to be an active father to Joshua either. I shut down, forcing myself to simply function each day—breathe, eat, sleep, make sure Laura's okay, play with Amber, work. As long as my obligations were taken care of.

Laura sobbed for weeks, and she couldn't understand why I didn't… why, when I had to go back to work, I did so wordlessly and effortlessly and silently. I couldn't explain myself, and she would sob more, screaming to banish me from her room. But she was dealing with it, more than me. When she began to function again, though it took several months longer than myself, she was functioning because it's what she could handle—not because she wasn't handling anything.

Christmas came and passed, my mother came and left several times, trying to help us… They said he'd died of SIDS. It meant that they had no fucking idea what had killed him—random, unexplainable, nothingness. Months passed… winter passed… It wasn't until it was too late that I allowed myself enough awareness of the people around me to realize that, though I'd already lost everything, I was somehow losing more.

The lease on our apartment was up the last day in April. Laura approached me, forcing me to look her in the eye for the first time in months. She and Amber were going to move… she had an aunt in Boston who had offered to let them stay until they got on their feet, and she even thought she could help Laura get a teaching job there. I was confused—telling her that even though she had a job here… that I probably wouldn't be able to find a job, doing what I do, that paid as well in Boston… and that's when she sighed heavily.

"Gil… We're… we're moving to Boston… without you. Joshua…" Her voice cracked over his name, and tears spilled down her cheeks. "He was the only reason we started living together. We… we're not a family, without him, Gil… I have the next week off, and I'm going to do the packing while you're at work… we'll be out of your hair in a month. Gil… Gil, look at me." She pleaded, and despite my efforts to detach again, she drew me tightly into the center of my pain. "Gil, you can't afford this big apartment by yourself. The lease is up in a month, I put in our notice… Do you want some help apartment hunting?"

I swallow, and slowly shake my head. I didn't sleep for the rest of the month—I worked during the day, watched Amber sleeping at night… and eventually formed some sort of plan in my mind. Maybe if I'd been more aware, less lost in my grief, I could have stopped them leaving… but I knew that was a fruitless effort now. I had no custody over Amber… no way to keep her with me. So I started looking into job openings… in California. L.A. was hiring a CSI level 3, and I sent in an application.

I didn't really expect to get the job—it was a much better position than the one I held here. Though I would be at the same level, with my particular expertise they made me an offer they knew I couldn't refuse—with me on staff, they could put their name behind mine. They wanted me to take part of the year to speak at different colleges, conferences… to be a consult around the country to labs with particularly troubling cases that could be evaluated using an insect timeline… and when I was in L.A., I had a CSI position waiting for me.

I wrote my mother, to tell her I was moving back to the state, and I began my packing too. Laura left me an address and a phone number to where she'd be staying in Boston—I could still talk to Amber, she said. She hadn't made this choice to keep me from her. I stayed in a hotel to finish out my two weeks in Minneapolis, because I couldn't stand to stay in the apartment when it was empty. When I finally boarded the plane, it was with relief to be putting Minnesota behind me.

* * *

Graduation

You would think, for how hard I worked for this, that I would be happy. I had finished the last of my AP tests and, though I wouldn't get the results until the end of June, I knew that I had done well. I was graduating with a 4.0… I was sixteen years old, and I was graduating high school. I looked down nervously at the packet that had arrived in the mail today—from Boston. Tyler was coming over to pick me up soon… he wanted to take me out to lunch before I graduated, because Jim and Marlene were making a big meal that night… his parents were even invited over. I felt like I should have been shy about this, but I couldn't bring myself to worry too much… especially not now, with the large manila envelope in my hands.

I read through the papers again—I had already been accepted to Harvard, though it was early… once they'd realized I was sending all my AP scores to them—and once they'd seen the AP scores—someone from the enrollment office had called for me. When I explained that I was graduating early, but that my interest in Harvard depended on financial aid, he helped me with all the necessary applications and had been sending me additional scholarship information since January. I had received the acceptance in March—Tyler and I had had a big fight that night—but the acceptance meant nothing. The package in my trembling fingers was what mattered.

And somehow, though I was happy, I was also sad. As long as I kept a 3.5 GPA, I had a full ride. More than a full ride—what they were offering would cover room and board every year, and then some… It was clear they were trying to sweeten the deal—with my grades, my test scores, my AP Credits, they knew that I could get into any Ivy League… they were competing for me. I should have been ecstatic.

Tyler arrived, and I stood, my graduation gown draped over a hanger in one hand, the envelope in the other. I moved outside, hanging the gown in his backseat, and climbing into the front, the envelope on my lap. He kissed me, smiling, and then frowned at the envelope. As we drove, I caught his furtive glances, but I waited for him to speak first. As we parked, he did.

"So… is that it? The financial aid?"

I nod.

"Can I see it?"

I pass it to him, keeping my eyes on my hands in my lap. He slides the papers out, scanning for the bottom line. He's silent, but it's a more still silence than the quiet of a moment ago, and I know he's found it. I chance a glance, and watch his eyes read and reread one sentence over and over. Then he looks at me, and I know there's so much he isn't going to say.

"That's—" his voice falters, and he swallows hard, a fake smile crossing his face. "That's great, Sara! Amazing… I, uh… I'm so proud of you! Congratulations!"

I bite my bottom lip. "You don't have to pretend you're happy, Ty."

His jaw twitches, and his eyes close. "Let's, uh, let's go inside and… and celebrate! You're… you're going to Harvard!"

He exits the car, slamming the door, and moves to the door of the restaurant, not waiting for me. I get out slowly, tucking the envelope below his passenger seat, and move into the restaurant. He's pacing the entryway, and I'm nervous, hoping he isn't going to yell at me in the restaurant. We're seated a moment later, and I take in a deep, shuddering breath as I force him to meet my eyes.

"…You know that I don't _want_ to leave you."

He looks at the table, like he can't look at me. "Sara, I… we can't talk about this here. I'm going to get upset, and do something I regret… after your graduation, we'll talk about it, okay?"

I nod, and he changes the subject, but it doesn't really change—we have the conversation with our eyes throughout the day.

_How could you leave me?_

_ How can you expect me to give up this opportunity?_

_I thought you loved me…_

_ You know I can't be like my mother…_

_I'm not your father._

_ This is my only chance…_

After graduation, which is boring at best, though I manage to find him in the crowd and maintain eye contact for most of the ceremony, he finds me, holding me tight and kissing me fiercely, and I feel like maybe we can get through this… maybe we can find a way to make it work. I play out crazy ideas in my head, like using my excess aid to help him pay for college—even if he doesn't go to Harvard, there were other colleges in Boston… Or working a lot, so that every other weekend one of us could fly to see the other…

None of them made a lot of sense, but I could hope, couldn't I?

Dinner was fun—Jim and Marlene were gracious and hospitable, and so I wasn't embarrassed to have his parents there. I was actually happy… it felt like I had a family of my own, almost… I'd never stayed with one couple for so long, after all. And then they left, telling Tyler they'd see him at home later, and we left shortly after—being left to our own devices, I knew exactly what was going to happen, and braced myself for the fight.

It was chilly, but we walked along the beach anyway. It felt like the place we needed to be. His words came softly.

"I don't want to hold you back, Sara… I just can't imagine living without you…"

"Me either… but… Ty, I'm scared that if I don't take this opportunity, I'm… I'm going to end up just like my mom and—"

"I know, Sara, I know." He pulls me to his chest and holds me tightly, desperately. "I know when you're afraid and what you're afraid of, without you telling me… I know you as well as I know myself… better, probably. I would never hurt you like he hurt her."

"I know. I know you wouldn't… but I… I can't let myself be weak enough that, if it happened, I would be stuck. I… can't be stuck, like her."

He looks down. "I guess I thought, with me, you wouldn't be stuck… you'd be happy."

My forehead creases. "Ty, you know that I didn't mean that… It's… it's a vulnerability thing. Even though I know you would never hurt me, I still have to feel like, if you ever did, we're on equal enough footing that I could stop it… You know that it's not about you, it's about me…"

He nods. "I know… it just—this just hurts so fucking much. I _do_ want to hold you back—I want to beg you to stay for me—I want to be enough for you—enough to make you willing to be vulnerable, because you love me that damn much."

He trembles with this confession, and I feel tears building up in my eyes. "I want to be enough that you don't need me to be vulnerable… enough that you believe we can make it work, long-distance, for as long as it takes…"

He pulls away from me, walking again, pacing frantically, and I feel the trails begin down my cheeks. "I… God, Sara, I had this… this crazy idea in my head that… that you wouldn't be able to leave… that you'd get the financial aid and… and just toss it out, telling me that I was so much more important than anything else in your life… that I _was_ your life, like you'd told me so many times… and… and then we could make love for the first time, because we would both know that… that you weren't going anywhere… that we were in this forever."

His words hit me deeply, and the pain of it knocks the breath from my chest, but I'm stubborn, and one point sticks out… "You wanted a sacrifice, on my part, to prove how much I love you… but you're not willing to even talk about sacrifices on your part."

He's frustrated now. "Okay, Sara, I'm sorry, but if you're thinking about _our_ future… I'm the man. I know you hate to hear that, but the fact of the matter is that I can't be without a good job. You can. That's the reality of the world we live in. What happens when you go on maternity leave and we go without the primary income? …I'm sorry, honey, I know you're as smart as anything and that you have these big dreams… but if you were to ask yourself who in our relationship needs the education more, for _our future_, you'd have to agree with me."

I close my eyes for a long moment, unable to speak for the intensity of the pain that reverberates through me at his words, but I must speak, and so I open my eyes, forcing myself to have more strength now than it took to check if my father was dead when I was seven years old. This will be the hardest thing I'll ever do.

"Ty…" my voice breaks, but I force myself to continue. "I… I can't be with someone who… thinks that the appendage between his legs makes him more _worthy_ of sacrifice… the more sensible choice for the better opportunities. …I can't be with someone who expects me to give up my dreams as a matter of course, or because it's more practical in the long run, so that we can have the children that you _know_ I'm not even sure I want. I can't be with a man who could expect me to be a stay-at-home-mom, but who laughs at the idea of stay-at-home-dads…

"You know, little things you've said that have bothered me… I blew them off. My love for you is so much bigger than the little moments where you've stuck your foot in your mouth. But…" my voice breaks again, and I can see in his eyes that he knows what's coming. "But I know, now, that it isn't a few minor quirks or unconscious lapses in judgment based on how you were raised… _it's how you really feel_. And… I can't be with you anymore. There's a summer program there that… that I wasn't going to do, even though the advisor I've been talking to says it would be really good for me, because we needed the summer to figure out how to make our relationship work, long distance, but… um, I'm… I'm going to take it. I have enough excess aid to afford it, and I… I just lost the only reason I wanted to stay."

I walk home that night, and consequently don't get home before my curfew. Jim is angry, and Marlene is simply worried, but from the tears still not dry on my cheeks and the slump in my shoulders, they let it go, this once, and I move to my bedroom in silence. Once there, I collapse on the bed and into my misery—into a pain like I have never known—and I don't move from that spot for the next three days, no matter how often he calls or comes over to see me. I have been deceived, by the only person I had trusted since before I could remember, and I was done.


	12. August 1988

Disclaimer: Not mine. Etc.

A/N: I really want to thank everybody who reviewed! I know there were only a few of you, but I practically peed myself I was so excited to check them. I finally understand what all the fuss is about, lol! Anyway, thanks! It really means a lot!!

* * *

Chapter 11: August 1988

Breathing

Sooner or later, pretending to function gives way to actually functioning, especially when you put yourself into a new situation. The part of me that was still able to feel did feel excited for the new job and the proximity with my mother and the return of year-round sunshine. I needed more sunshine, I decided deliberately and, after spending a few months in L.A., it was easier to breathe. It still wasn't like before—I had a feeling that I would walk around the rest of my life short of breath—but I felt, at least, like my face had broken the surface of the water and I was no longer drowning.

I continued to throw myself into my work—it was the only way I could keep going, because if I wasn't busy, I thought about him, and when I thought about him, I stopped breathing again. I found myself extremely grateful that I'd had Amber to provide for, when we lost Joshua… I might have killed myself, if I hadn't had a reason to get up from bed every day and join the world of the living. I missed Amber like a burning man misses water, and I called her nightly to ask about her day. She was happy to talk to me, and missed me. She still called me 'daddy.'

The distance killed me. I made sure that, once I was settled and had figured out my new costs of living, I sent them a check monthly. Laura had called after the first one, trying to discourage the action, but I wouldn't hear of it. If she didn't need it now, I argued, she might need it later. If nothing else, she could save it for a rainy day… or start a college fund for Amber… something.

I had insisted, and eventually she'd given in. At least I was still providing for her… at least I could feel like I still deserved the title she bestowed upon me… at least I had something, someone else, who needed me, to keep me going…

* * *

Betrayal

I did the summer program at Harvard and loved Boston—loved living on my own, loved having classes that challenged me and professors who didn't know anything about me… I loved the opportunity to start fresh and be whoever and whatever I wanted to be. It was empowering, and though I missed Tyler, I couldn't bring myself to regret my choice to leave, even if I had overreacted to his words, which I didn't think I had. This was _good_ for me, being on my own, out of my comfort zone, becoming a more whole person. I found myself happy, and though I was still lonely, it was a most concrete kind of happiness—one that didn't falter based on someone else. It was the first time I'd ever felt happy, and good about myself, _for myself_.

I went back to visit Jim and Marlene in August, and I called Tyler's house and left a message with his mother about when I would be back in town. She talked to me for a few minutes, asking about Boston and school, and I forgot myself, getting excited and telling her how happy I was and how much I loved Boston… and then caught myself, feeling like it would hurt his mother to hear me talking about being happy without him. But I was too proud to try to take it back—to profess my love and the unyieldingness of my longing for him—and so I ended the conversation, wondering if the wonderful woman now hated me.

He didn't come see me at all the first two days that I was there, and so I assumed he didn't want to see me. Maybe it had something to do with the conversation I'd had with his mom, or maybe he'd just moved on… If so, I was even happier about my decision. True love doesn't forget over a summer… I hadn't forgotten. There hadn't been more than five minutes since I'd left that I'd gone without thinking of him. There had been three guys at the restaurant I now worked at who had either asked me out or hit on me in the first week I worked, and never once had my thoughts, my love, my devotion, wavered from him. The idea of even going to a movie with another male, if it could be called a "date," made my skin crawl.

On the third day, however, there was a knock on the door. Jim was at work and Marlene had gone to go grocery shopping. I was curled up on the couch, reading one of my school books, clad in old jeans and a little tank top, having not intended to go outside today—the time difference had thrown me off a bit and I felt lethargic. Setting the book down, I clambered to my feet and opened the door, my eyes widening when I saw him there. He was more beautiful than my memory had been able to conjure, and I felt a dull ache in my chest at just the sight of him there. I have to force myself to breathe.

"Hey." He shoves his hands into his pockets, a familiar gesture of discomfort. I smile, despite myself.

"Hey. I… I was hoping you would want to see me."

His mouth twisted. "I always want to see you."

I swallow hard. "Do… do you want to come in, or…"

He shuffles his feet. He's uncomfortable. "Maybe… we could go to… to our spot."

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest at his words. "Yeah. Yeah, just… let me throw on a different shirt."

He steps inside the doorway and I close the door behind him before disappearing into my old bedroom to pull a tee-shirt out of my suitcase and throw it over my head. I'm out and back in front of him seconds later, and he smiles a little. We move out to his car without speaking, and I try to think of what I can say to him as he drives the familiar route to the beach.

"… I missed you, Ty." My voice is small, and the admission brings a blush to my cheeks that I can't explain to myself. I glance at him, but then immediately back at my knees.

He sighs and moves his hand over to take mine, gently. "I missed you too, Sara."

I smile, and our hands squeeze together. He parks at the beach, and we're out of the car in a moment, clasping hands again and beginning our familiar trek to the end of the sand. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, and smiles. "Boston must be good for you… you look happy."

My mouth twists into a strange, half-smile. "I like Boston a lot. …I miss _you_ a lot, when I'm there."

He laughed, but it was not in amusement—it was a hollow sound, meant to disguise grief. "You mean you haven't seduced half the chemistry department with that brain of yours?"

My eyes felt flat and lifeless as I turned them to him. "The only person I've ever seduced is you… I… Ty, I couldn't even look at anyone else, even if I wanted to."

He isn't sure how to respond to my words—I think they made him simultaneously happy and sad, and his face reflected the contradiction.

We had finally reached the end of the beach, and we slowly sank into the sand, sitting cross-legged where so many times before we had lain in the throes of adolescent passion. I felt my cheeks heat at the memory and I watched our hands, our fingers still wrapped tightly together.

"Maybe… maybe we could work this out, this long-distance thing…"

My eyes seek out his, surprised. "…Really? Ty, you… you mean it?"

He holds my gaze. "Yeah. I… it'll be hard but… I got a job, over the summer… and I'm saving up. Maybe, if we can afford it, we can fly to see each other a few times a year…"

There was a desperation in his voice that made me tremble, but I couldn't be happier with his words. He was acknowledging that me following my dreams was as important as him following his… I believed deeply that he had changed, and I had missed him so much that I would have believed any words from those blessed lips. A few times a year sounded awful, but wondrous and amazing and spectacular when you compared it with not having him, never seeing him…

I don't know which of us initiated, but in the next moment I was laying in the sand, and he was above me, and we were kissing each other as if not a day had passed between us, or perhaps as though a lifetime had, and we were making up for every lost moment.

I had not forgotten a single detail of his face or his body, but I took my time to reacquaint myself with each detail as clothes slowly fell away from us, despite our exposure—we didn't have a blanket this time, and it was mid-afternoon. We were lucky we'd found such an abandoned stretch of beach, and that the day was overcast, but even so, it was risky. In the moment, however, I was lost in the feel of his lips and his hair wrapped in my fingers and his body against me and his hands, rediscovering what I felt now had always, always, been his.

Without really realizing what had happened, we were making love—he had stopped, hovering outside me, his eyes seeking approval, and I would not have denied him anything in that moment. He slipped inside me, slowly, and I gasped out loud at my surprise—I could not in my wildest dreams have imagined how he filled me up, how complete I felt… I hadn't really realized that I had a hole in my being until this moment, when I recognized the joy of its absence. I had expected it to hurt, and he moved slowly, afraid of the same, but it _didn't_ hurt… it felt good, and before long he was moving inside me with reckless abandon as my nails ground into his back and my lips whispered out his name over and over. I should have thought about the effect my going over the edge would have on him, but I didn't—and as I felt myself clench around him in waves of pleasure, I heard his whispered curse as he pulled from me, panting heavily.

I sat up, looking at him in confusion, and then realized my mistake—we didn't have any birth control, and my orgasm had pushed him to his own… he'd pulled out, once he realized what was happening, and the sand between us had wet streaks across it.

I pulled him to me, kissing him gently. "I'm sorry, baby. I… I didn't want you to have to stop yourself. I… I guess I didn't think about the ending…"

He chuckled softly, burying his face in my neck. "It's okay… I… I think I was out before anything…happened." He looked up then, holding my gaze. "I… I love you, Sara. More than anything."

"I love you too, Ty. I'm… god, I'm so glad we did this. I couldn't imagine our first time to have been any more perfect…"

His eyes avert themselves downwards, and I'm confused. It feels like he's hiding something, and when I tilt his face back up to meet mine, there is shame etched in his features.

"Ty… what's wrong?"

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and I replay in my mind the words which caused this reaction. _I couldn't imagine our _first_ time to have been more perfect… _

My eyes snap to his, and I'm filled with even more pain than at our break up. He looks at me, fear mingling with the shame, and I shake my head slowly, disbelieving. "No, Ty… you… you didn't, Ty."

He closes his eyes, and I'm already up, pulling my clothes on again, feeling suddenly extremely exposed and vulnerable out here in the open. "Sara! Wait, where are you going?"

But now I'm angry, hot tears leaking from the corners of my eyes as I struggle to catch my breath. He grabs my arm, to stop my flight, and I push him, hard, so that he falls back to the sand, still naked. And then I'm looming over him, no longer wanting to run but to lash out. It's a moment before I realize how loud I am… a moment before I notice that I'm screaming.

"Who was she? Did you tell her that you loved her, too? Was she _better_ than me? Did you prefer her as your first, Tyler? Don't think I didn't have any offers in Boston! I didn't _have_ to wait around for you! It would take two hands to count the number of guys who have hit on me since I moved, and I never, ever thought of anyone but you! God, you could have _had_ me, Tyler! All this time… I could have been yours, _your first_, your only… for over a year! I _wanted_ it to be me! And yet, for that year, you told me "no" and to slow down, but I'm gone two months and you forget about me enough to bury yourself in someone else? How _dare_ you?! …Don't… don't you ever tell me you love me, ever again. I can't believe I let you touch me… I can't believe I gave you _that_."

By the time I'm finished, the screams have dwindled to a soft calm, and I feel exhausted. I turn to leave, and I can hear him scrambling into his jeans and snatching up his other clothing as he races to catch me. I would run if I thought I could outrun him, but he would catch me eventually, so I maintain my pace, wiping my eyes furiously.

"Sara! Sara," he catches my arm, and turns me to face him. "…you…you broke up with me, remember? I didn't _cheat_ on you. She… she meant _nothing,_ Sara, that's why I didn't care about waiting. With you… I wanted it to be perfect. I… I didn't give a shit about _her_."

But I'm past forgiveness at this point. "So… you used some random girl you didn't even like because I broke up with you for being a sexist asshole? Wow, I _do_ feel like forgiving you…"

He sighs, heavily, and I can see the pain in his eyes. My resolve wavers, but I'm not ready to let it fail completely. I swallow hard, and meet his gaze, my voice resigned. "When did it happen?"

He's surprised. He swallows hard too. "W-What?"

"When did you sleep with her, Tyler?" We both know that everything hinges on his answer, and we both know that he can't lie to me. He could never lie to me—I always see through it. His eyes close, and I brace myself.

"It was…" he swallows again, tears falling slowly now. "God, Sara, I'm so sorry… I was an idiot. I just… I couldn't deal with you leaving… it was _killing_ me."

I watch him silently. He takes a deep breath, answering the question he was seeking to avoid.

"The… the day after you left for Boston."

He looks up at me, a strange mix of fear and something else in his eyes, and he looks alarmed upon looking into mine. I know they show nothing, because I can feel them… I can feel the emptiness, the flat plane of absence, and the cold, too. I let them close, and open them again slowly. "…Don't follow me this time."

I walked back to Jim and Marlene's and, having called the airport, managed to switch my flight to the next day. I hugged them both, apologizing for leaving so soon, and telling them for the first time in my life that I loved them and would miss them. Jim looked uncomfortable, but Marlene just hugged me tighter, and told me she was proud of me. That felt good and, somewhere, in the depths of the blankness that I had buried myself in, I knew that I would be proud of myself too, eventually.

When Jim pulled out of the driveway, to take me to the airport, I saw Tyler's car pull up and park on the side of the street. Jim braked, looking in the rear-view mirror at me, his eyes asking if I wanted to stop. Tyler got out of the car and stood there, watching me through the window of the car that idled in the middle of the street. It was only a moment, and then I shook my head slowly, and Jim drove away.


	13. April 1989

Disclaimer: I do not own, blah blah blah.

* * *

Chapter 12: April 1989

Finding meaning in little things

Over time, I managed to latch on to small victories—breaks in cases, relationships forged at work, a phone call in which my mother didn't ask how I was doing more than twice… and that took me through the holiday season, which was horrible, and into another new year. 1989.

My favorite part of the job was the travelling, not only for the consultations, which I took great joy in, but also for the lectures. I found that I truly enjoyed teaching, and wondered if I shouldn't change my vocation, if not now, eventually. I could train the up-and-coming forensic scientists… not just train, but _educate_. It was the only thrill of excitement I had felt since moving back to California, until I got the next schedule of lecture dates and locations. During April, I was scheduled to speak at several of the colleges in Boston. Boston—Amber lived in Boston. Amber's birthday was in April. Kismet.

I had immediately dialed Laura, making sure that they would be in town and available during that time—I couldn't wait to see my little girl, to spend her fifth birthday with her. And now I had something to look forward to.

I asked Laura, in that rare phone conversation, how she was doing, and my meaning was clear.

"It's… I'm… I keep reminding myself to breathe… reminding myself to keep my heart beating."

I nod, even though we're on the phone, and she asks about me. I draw a shuddering breath.

"I just… I see him everywhere, Laura. I—I'm… functioning. I wake up every day, and I sleep every night."

Needless to say, we don't talk to each other often.

I arrived in Boston nearing six o'clock at night, but I took a rental car to my hotel room first. Laura had offered to let me stay, but she was staying with her sister and… and though I missed Amber, Laura made me think of Joshua. I don't let myself think about him more than absolutely necessary. It's the only way I don't collapse again. Once I'd dropped off my bags, however, and made an attempt to organize my lecture materials, I could no longer control my eagerness. I changed into fresh clothes, discarding the wrinkled jeans and t-shirt I'd worn on the plane, and called as I started my drive over to their new home, asking for directions.

I picked them up, but immediately ceded the driving responsibilities to Laura as Amber clambered into the back seat after giving me the biggest bear hug of my life. We went out to eat, a restaurant Laura had chosen—if it had been up to me, we would have ended up somewhere where Amber could play games and win prizes, but Laura put her foot down—she'd had enough game rooms to tide her over for a while. Moving inside, I'm a little surprised at her choice. It's a little noisy, and most of the tables are filled with college-aged people. She catches my look, however, and smiles a little embarrassedly.

"So the atmosphere is lacking, but they've got the best pasta in town and, you know, since you're paying…" She nudged me playfully, and I feel myself smiling. I remember why I was attracted to Laura in the first place—she was _fun_. I didn't seem to have a lot of fun, nowadays…

We're seated in a booth in between two overflowing groups of college students, though for the most part they're just animatedly conversing, not shouting or carousing… God I'm old, I realize with disdain, and make an effort to ignore the people enjoying their youth. They _should_ enjoy it… youth is fleeting. Life is fleeting.

Amber fills me up with a warm happiness, deep in my chest, as she describes her friends and her school, even though these are things I've heard about a hundred times, and I can't help but beam down at her. We order, in between her stories, and the pasta _is_ amazing. By the time we've all shared a large chocolate dessert and the waitress is returning with my change, Amber is leaning against my chest, her eyes drooping heavily. I smile, pulling her onto my lap, and we slide out of the booth quietly, moving silently back out to the car, despite the din around us.

I get to tuck her in again, which makes my year, and I give Laura a gentle hug goodbye before I make my way back to the hotel. After my lecture the next day, Amber's going to come swim at the hotel, and we'll have cake and I can give her her birthday presents. I might have gone a little overboard, but it isn't everyday that your little girl turns five.

That's what it's all about, in the end—You have to keep living, and in order to do that, you have to take joy in little things. You have to let one tucking-in last a whole year, if you need it to, and you have to smile at the energetic antics of the young, and you have to let yourself feel the good things… _really_ feel them, as much as you can. It's the only way to keep going.

When I return to L.A., it's with more life than I remember having… I get back my excitement, my playful eccentricities… my passion for the job. I never stop mourning him, of course… Joshua is a constant aching throb in my chest that resonates with each heart beat… but my thoughts are with the living now, and I know he's in a better place, despite my cynical outlook on religion.

When it comes down to my very core belief, minus the inescapable logic I surround myself with, I can't disregard God altogether… and so I keep him in my chest, an unacknowledged truth within me, with Joshua, and I feel like that's where they both belong, anyway.

* * *

The youngest and oldest in the room, apparently.

I had made several friends since moving to Boston—my roommate (I had to live in the dorms the first year, but I didn't mind… kept me from spending too much time alone) was a social butterfly, and was either nice or conceded enough to assume my interest and invite me along on her varied exploits. A few weeks before finals, I agreed to let myself go out to a restaurant just a block or so off campus, considering that it would be my last night out before I buried myself in books. I hadn't given up an entire other life possibility, albeit in the arms of someone I wasn't sure I had ever known at all, to give less than the very best I had to this endeavor.

We were seated in a large booth—the kind that wraps around to accommodate eight rather than four or six, and our final two group members had pulled chairs up to the edge of the table, having haphazardly joined us after the people they had come with had left. I didn't mind the company, although I was always slow to warm up to new people. My instinct was to do as I had done early in life—put on the best act of confidence and self-assuredness that I could, and never back down from a challenge. So when the older members of the group ordered shots for the table and they were delivered, without hesitation, to the mostly underage table… I raised the glass to my lips and downed it like an expert, prepared for the burn, in theory, and managing to disguise my response to the first taste of alcohol that had ever passed my lips.

No one noticed, though my roommate (who did have experience drinking) had been teased for coughing and nearly choking on hers. We ordered food, and shots were brought around in five to ten minute intervals. After my second I was thinking that I had come to college to be a different person—I already was different. I wasn't going to continue living like I had something to prove… making decisions based on my need to look hard as nails. The third shot was placed on the table, and I declared it to be my last one and downed it again.

A few of the people at the table teased me, but I was solid in my resolution, even if I felt more smiley than normal. Tyler had made me smile like this… "No, no. I'm a lightweight; I can't have any more…"

Someone scoffs, telling me I could pound shots with the best of them, and I blush, oddly aware that the boy across from me views this as a high compliment. I laugh then, both because of his ignorance and because I'm a little silly. Not drunk, just more open… a little less guarded. "Yeah, keep trying, honey, I'm still just jail bait to you."

The girls laugh, but he looks confused. Apparently my mocking was not the intended outcome of his flirting. "I don't get it… are you calling me old? I just turned 21…"

My roommate provides the explanation that I can't give, because I'm laughing again. I don't usually laugh this much…

"No, Jerry, she's seventeen!"

His eyebrows shoot up. "No shit. Are you in high school then?"

I laugh more, shaking my head. "No, I'm just smarter than you are." The table laughs, and "Jerry" even chuckles appreciatively at my banter, but his eyes are burning, as if I'm more intriguing now.

"So… how often have you drank before this?"

Normally I would dislike being the center of attention, but I liked the burning I saw in him, even though I knew I wouldn't indulge it. I just wanted to feel wanted… it was almost like slapping Tyler, all the way across the country. If I wanted to, I could give myself away too. I just didn't want to.

So I smiled and shook my head, accepting the many eyes upon me as if they were nothing. "Never. First three drinks of my life, actually. …It's not as good as everyone seems to think it is though…"

He chuckles, then, arguing, "It's like sex. …On the purely physical level, anyway. The first time is never as good as the consecutive times, when you get good at it…"

My eyes narrow, though the smile doesn't leave my lips. He's very practiced, this Jerry. That was a seamless transition into my sex life. I hesitate, unsure how to fire back, and the hesitation is my downfall. He catches it, and runs with it.

"…No witty comeback, Miss Seventeen? Or, is it possible that you're still a _virgin_…?"

A smile spreads over my lips—I'm overcompensating in confidence again, and not doing it nearly as well as I had with the drinks. It's easier when everyone isn't watching only you, after all. "No, I'm not, but thanks for the concern. I'm sure you would have been happy to relieve me of that burden."

Laughter again, but his eyes are fixed, toying. He sees through the tough act. "Liar."

My jaw drops, and I'm gearing up to rip him a new one, but my roommate seems to think it's the right time to intervene…again. She's definitely had too much to drink… I can tell just by her eyes, even before she speaks. "No, Jerry, she's _not_! I _know_!" She blinks several times, quite deliberately, as if that emphasizes her point. "And… I don't think you could beat this guy, Jerry. He was _gooooood_ at what he did."

My face is on fire, but I refuse to lower my gaze, and even laugh when the others do. What else am I gonna do? I can hardly kill the roommate with all the witnesses present. He isn't done though. He responds to her, but keeps his eyes on me. "Oh really? I guess the only way to know for sure would be… trial and error. You're a science major, right Sar'? Maybe we could do an _experiment_…"

I roll my eyes. "You couldn't handle _my_ experiments. Sorry."

The table erupts, and then there's another round delivered, along with an appetizer that my very-drunk companions ordered, despite our dinner plates pushed in front of us, long finished. The conversation drifts, but his eyes don't. I take a deep breath—he's going to be hard to discourage.

Once the conversation is no longer focused on me, I notice the face of a sleeping little girl over her father's shoulder, the next booth over. I suddenly feel bad at the noise we were making, but the couple rises, the child's eyes never opening, and they leave. I glance at the table—their plates were emptied. We probably hadn't bothered them too much…

I lose myself, for a moment, in the scene. I couldn't remember being carried anywhere by my father… certainly not being gently lifted to the car whilst asleep. It made me long for a history… or a better one, at least. But I push the thoughts aside—if you didn't dwell on them, they went away more easily, and the last thing I needed was the nightmares to come back.

Hours later, as we're leaving, Jerry tries to convince me to let him give me a ride home. He must think I'm more of a lightweight than I truly am, because I had thought I had been fairly clear in my disinterest. I make the necessary excuse, and it's actually truthful, which saves me the guilt. "I have to get Kelly back to the dorm room. It's only a few blocks, really, we'll be fine."

He sighs, but lifts the arm that dangles at her side and mimics my posture; draping the appendage over his shoulders and helping me guide her back home. I appreciate the help, but not the clear ulterior motive he's not bothering to conceal. I fumble for my keys as we reach the exterior door, and manage to open it and let him guide her inside it. Even though it's April, there's still snow on the ground, and I want to get her into the warm as quickly as possible.

We have to go up two flights of stairs, and then he's supporting her weight again as she giggles and I struggle to open the door to our room. It swings open, and he guides her in without any invitation on my behalf. I sigh, moving in and turning the lights on. It's not messy, but it's not really clean either. I wonder if I should feel embarrassed, but I don't. "Which bed?"

His question surprises me, and then I understand. "Oh, uh, the one by the window is hers." He sits her there, and she immediately falls into her pillow. I set my coat and purse on my desk chair, turning to look at him. He looks at me, expectantly, and I almost laugh again. Almost, but I don't. I meet his gaze steadily, almost disbelievingly.

"So… she's pretty much out. I could stay for a while, if you need some help taking care of her…"

It's a struggle not to roll my eyes again. I've been taking care of drunks since before I could read. "No, I, uh… I think I can handle it on my own."

"I could just stay… not to help, just…" I stop that nonsense before it can start.

"No, thanks Jerry, why don't you go get some sleep?"

He's nothing if not persistent. The fire starts in his eyes, and I know before I see the smile twist his lips that his next words will be suggestive, if not outright crude. "We could talk about that experiment you promised me…"

I shake my head. "I didn't promise you anything. I believe I told you that _my_ experiments were a little out of your league…"

"You know, I really doubt that, Sara. You're a science major, right? You understand how the world works. I'm a psych major… I know how _people_ work. …You might not be a virgin, but you're not super experienced—you hide your innocence well, but it sneaks out sometimes, when you're not concentrating on it so hard. I find that… intriguing."

But now I'm pissed. For a psych major, he's not very good at this; if there's anything that's likely to get him kicked out more quickly, it's trying to tell someone who clearly works hard to not be seen that you think you know something about them. Anything about them, really.

"No, you don't find it _intriguing_, you find it _arousing_. Something in the male psyche just loves the idea of _tainting_ innocence, of drawing the bad girl out of the good girl, of twisting and distorting something that's already beautiful in its own right into something that is only beautiful in the way they want it to be… well let me be the first of, I am certain, _many_ women to tell you that I don't exist to fulfill your fantasies, and even if there _were_ any innocence left in me, you wouldn't deserve it. You're leaving now, by the way." I swing the door open and he sighs, disappointed, and leaves. I wait to hear his footsteps on the stairs and then the door distantly below. I double-check the lock on the door, and collapse into my bed.

I'm too exhausted and angry to even get up to change into pajamas, and drift to sleep, still fully clothed. My mind replays my night slowly, softly, like background music, and lingers inexplicably on the man with his sleeping daughter on his shoulder. For some reason, it's the highlight of my evening… it washes me clean of the stain Jerry's eyes had left on me, and I sleep soundly.


	14. August 1989, September 1989

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: So I've been trying to pace myself, because I don't want to post everything I have and then have nothing to put up until I add to this, but all the reviews made me all kinds of happy, and I decided another chapter was necessary. Sorry that these chapters are fairly Sara-centric... I promise it evens out again, eventually. Plus, I kind of want Grissom to be so distressed over Joshua and Amber, still, that he is only just getting by... he doesn't have the ups and downs, because he's just going through the motions. ...It just makes for a one-sided story for a while...

Anyway, I wanted to thank all my new reviewers, and my old ones, of course. Each one makes me absolutely giddy, which totally inspires more writing. Hint hint. :) Thanks!!

* * *

Chapter 13: August/September 1989

Another year older.

It's hard, on your birthday, to be objective about the future. I don't know that I've ever had a biological time clock—not in the exact sense of the phrase—but I do sort of feel like time is running out for me. Amber is busy, and we don't talk as much anymore… between Kindergarten and now dance class and new friends. And though it hurts, there's a part of me that understands. It's hard for a child to never see someone and stay close… I work to keep up the connection, but I can't help but acknowledge her waning interest. Eventually Laura will marry a man she loves, and he'll be daddy… Amber has a big, loving heart, and she gives of it freely. I could never fault her for that. When she has less time, I call less often, but never with less love or less excitement.

But until it happens, I'm not giving up what little claim I have on her. I'll be in town over Halloween, and Laura said I could take her trick-or-treating… It's what keeps each day bearable—knowing that I'll be seeing her soon—it's the last thought I have before drifting to sleep each night. She wants to be a princess, or a power ranger.

In the mean time, I wonder what's left for me. A child who isn't really mine on the other side of the country, intrinsically linked to the woman who forces me to relive the very worst moments of my life... I don't find myself attracted to anyone, at the moment, and so I can't even date in the hopes that I can start a family, just a little late in life.

I worried, at first, once I realized that I hadn't noticed a woman in months… but I knew what it was about. Joshua had left such a deep, pervading hole that I was numb to most of the things that used to stir deep interest in me... I desired women in general, but when they were actually in my proximity, there was nothing.

Maybe I couldn't bring myself to risk another love affair on anything less than true love—I didn't want another half-family that I didn't truly belong to. I wanted my own claim on a place and people in the world.

It didn't come.

* * *

Eighteen. I can finally buy my own pack of smokes.

My birthday was celebrated with the roommate turned friend, and no longer roommate—I was sick of taking care of her when she came home drunk, and moved in May to an apartment near campus. It wasn't amazing, but everything was clean and well taken care of… and it was a good size. That was enough for me.

She had toned down a bit, over the summer, no longer so outgoing. I wondered briefly if she had been acting as much as I had, pretending to be an extrovert. …If she was, she was a much better actress than I was. Still, the slightly quieter but no less energetic girl was a good match for me, in temperament. She drew me out a little, and I pulled her back, a little. And we got each other.

She also saw too much. I appreciated the insight where others we knew were concerned—I saw others more clearly because of her—but when it came to me, I didn't like it.

"It's two days after your birthday, Sara. You didn't hear from him all summer. I doubt there's a birthday gift from him."

I turned from the mailbox I had been obsessively checking for the past week, scorn and denial on my face. "I'm not—"

She smiled. "You are, Sara, so don't even try to lie. You went home for a day or two this summer, didn't you? Why didn't you tell him you were in town?"

"I was cleaning out my room; Jim and Marlene are getting old, they can't keep up with the maintenance of a house anymore. I think Jim put his back out at work, though they wouldn't tell me anything… and if he can't play Mr. fix-it around there, the house would fall apart anyway."

"You didn't have a moment to spare for a bite to eat and some make-up sex?"

Freshman Sara would have blushed furiously and looked away, but I wasn't so bashful now. "No, I didn't. And you know I wouldn't sleep with him again."

She scoffs under her breath. "From your descriptions, even _I_ would sleep with him, Sara. Do you know how rare it is to climax your first time? To climax _before_ your first time? I bet it could have been amazing…"

My eyes are rolling, and I try not to think about it. "I know. It really could have been…" He had always amazed me, and the sex was the least of it.

She sighs, recognizing that she's losing me to my moping, and plops down on my bed, trying to change the subject. "I heard there's this super hot speaker coming to campus in October…salt and pepper, strong jaw line, blue eyes…"

The eyes roll again. "And what on earth makes you think an older man would be interested in you, other than a for good lay in a city he never has to see again?"

She just laughs. "You're crabby today. You have a test coming up soon?"

I grumble. "Yeah…"

"Let's grab something to eat. You'll feel better when you're not hungry."

I groan my acceptance and we head out to her car. "Can we stop on the way? I'm almost out." I say, pulling a cigarette from my nearly empty pack and resting it between my lips.

"For a science major, you're pretty stupid, you know?"

"Yeah, I know…"

She shakes her head as I bend my face over the lighter, my free hand blocking the wind from the open window. I know that I shouldn't smoke, I knew it when I was fourteen. Even though I had probably already been addicted when Ty and I started dating, he thought it was disgusting, and I didn't want his mom to smell it on me, and so I just… didn't. Mind over matter, or something like that. But after I ran away from him that day, I picked up my habit like I hadn't been gone a day, and it had felt sooo good.

I still knew it was stupid though.

But, at least I was 18… legally an adult. I wondered vaguely if Jim and Marlene would still want me to visit or if, now that I was old enough, they could forget about me, guilt-free. I didn't want to believe that our continued relationship after I'd moved to Boston had been guilt-driven, but I wasn't going to disregard the concept entirely, either. I guess I just have to play it by ear…

The greater problem, now, feels like a ticking clock. I don't have a major, or, at least nothing clear. I'm wavering between physics and chemistry, and even when I think I've chosen one over the other, I can't imagine a clear career path. And then biology will sneak up on me, and I'll remember how interesting it is, and I'm back where I started. It seems silly, since I'm ahead of the curve and all that, but I feel like, now that I'm an adult, I should know where I'm going or what I'm doing. Or, in a year, I'll be back on a playing field with everyone else… which I just can't accept.

But there's a professor I have this year who excites me deeply—my physics professor. I think that if I keep taking his classes, and listening to the way he views the world, and his subject in that world, I might forever be transformed into a physicist. I'm just… not ready to take that leap yet. But I live for the class, and I'm happy to feel like I'm leaning more towards _something_, rather than stuck in between everything… and then there's grad school, once I figure out my undergrad major… but I can't even think about that yet. I just… don't know what I want.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel my age—eighteen and on the precipice of my future, with no idea how to proceed.


	15. July 1990

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with them...

A/N: Okay, so I lied. I wasn't sure whether I'd be able to post tomorrow, and I want to hear your reactions to this chapter... :) Enjoy! Please review, it makes me smile!

* * *

Chapter 14: July 1990

Poker in Vegas

You wouldn't think that after all this time I would go back to playing poker in dingy little clubs and casino basements in Vegas, but maybe it has something to do with finding comfort in familiarity. I was a good poker player—my mind worked risk-assessment and weighted it against what I knew about human nature… it didn't hurt that I could count the cards, could determine an opponent's ticks in a hand or two, or that I had one hell of a poker face…

It wasn't even really about the money, it was about the mental challenge. It wasn't as challenging as my caseloads, but it didn't involve death and destruction and the greatest of human ills, so it was a good distraction. I missed playing chess too, since college, but at least I had one notable distraction. I wasn't about to start racing cockroaches…

And the more I was in Vegas, the more I thought about a phone call I had received earlier in the year, around March, although it was well into July now…

I'd received a call from the Las Vegas crime lab. They'd heard about me, both through my casework in L.A. and through my lecture circuits and consultations. As far as rankings went, they were not as well-established as the lab I was a part of now, but their offer, like the one I had received from L.A., had been a little above-and-beyond just a job offer.

They wanted to have the best crime lab in the country—they were assembling experts, and they wanted the best CSIs the country could offer under the management team they'd accumulated. From my solve-rates, they knew I was good at my job, and my lectures had convinced them that they needed an in-house entomology expert. I would still be able to do lectures, conferences, etc. but they'd want me in-lab more often—they wanted me to help a… Jim Brass… train the CSIs. Apparently there were even some level 3's who could use with a reminder about following evidence. They would accept nothing but nearly perfect protocol if they were going to be one of the top labs in the country.

I was told to think about it—that they wanted me right away, but the person I'd talked to had confided, when I'd said I wasn't sure, that he doubted they would ever turn me down, even if I didn't take the job right then. So I'd let four months pass, and maybe this offer had drawn me back to Vegas as much as anything else… I felt a strange fondness for the place. I had first come here to play poker to make money so I could take out my girlfriend at UCLA… I'd spent all the money I earned working in the coroner's office buying cadavers to do my own autopsies at home, and fetal pigs to study the insect timeline in different temperatures.

Maybe it was because the city represented a simpler time in my life, when I thought I would always love the first girl I ever slept with… when I didn't even know what love was, not… not true love. I knew now that I had loved Becky, more than anyone else I'd ever been with… but still not enough to stay with her forever. Maybe I wasn't meant to love that deeply.

But still, Vegas—with all its glitz and sex and gambling—seemed simple. People's motivations were basic, and mine were too—I wanted to throw myself into my career, because I had nothing else to throw myself into. L.A. was more than happy to keep me exactly where I was—they just wanted their crime lab's name behind one of the foremost experts on forensic entomology in the country. Las Vegas had a goal they wanted me to help them achieve—something to work towards, and the means of getting there was absolute devotion to justice and diligence to evidence… It was sounding more and more appealing. Maybe I'd have to call that guy again… something Cavallo?

After all, it's 1990… the beginning of a new decade, after all. Maybe it should be a new beginning for me as well. I may have lost my whole world several times over, but I would build another, with what I had to work with. If I couldn't have a family, I would father a lab. …Maybe I'd need a dog, too.

* * *

Apparently I like older men…

I spent the summer before I turned 19 in a dream-like fantasy. I was at a pool, sunbathing and reading—Of Mice and Men, again—when a miracle of God sprawled on the lawn chair beside me. He was tall, and muscular, and the _sexiest_ thing I had ever seen. The first man I had found more than slightly cute since Tyler—and more man than Tyler had ever been. He had noticed my gaze, and smiled—Good lord, what a smile.

"Hi. Michael Malone. Do you mind if I take this seat?"

I pushed my sunglasses up onto my forehead, struggling to keep from looking him up and down again, now that my eyes weren't hidden. "No, not at all. I, uh, I'm… Sara Sidle."

He shook my hand, and his eyes were not as successful as mine at restraining themselves. I felt myself beaming.

He laid a towel beneath himself and laid on his back. I had been on my stomach, the book open before me, but I was half-turned onto my side now. I don't know what my excuse would have been, if he'd asked me why I didn't turn back to my book, but he didn't. He turned back to me, once settled, and seemed glad that I was still facing him.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh," I lift the book offhandedly, realizing that he's probably telling me to get back to it so he can have some privacy. "Of Mice and Men. It's an old favorite…"

But the way he grinned did not imply that he wanted me to leave him alone. Neither did his response. "Beautiful _and_ smart, I see. I couldn't possibly be lucky enough to hope for single, could I?"

I giggled. I don't think I'd giggled since Tyler either. "You could hope…"

He ran a hand through the strands of black hair that fell onto his forehead. "Would I be disappointed?"

I smile coyly, but decide to give him this much, at least. "You wouldn't be."

He smiled a genuine smile, rather than a grin, and I felt good to my core. He had a sincere side, behind the confidence. It was good to know. "I imagine I'm a little too old to be asking out a college student…" His words were discounting, but his voice was teasing.

"I'm not too young to say yes."

"Are you too young to grab a drink…?"

I hesitate, and this answers his question. I speak anyway. "Not if it's from a personal bar…"

His grin is back; apparently he's deciding whether I'm too young for him.

"How long have you been at Harvard?" When my eyes question, he gestures to the bag at the side of my lawn chair with my clothes in it. It says 'Harvard' in large letters. I smile.

"I'll be starting my Junior year this fall."

"Not so young then… How long would I have to wait to take you for a legal drink?"

"Why wait? Adult and consensual… drinking… starts at the age of 18."

A surprised laugh fell from his lips and the genuine smile returned. I liked it better than the grin, even if it was less playful. He considers me for a moment.

"If I promise that the offer doesn't depend on your age, would you answer the question?"

"September 1992."

A low whistle escapes his lips, and his eyes trace over my body again. "So you're… eighteen."

My soft smile is his answer. "You did promise… I'm not so young that you couldn't relate to me, but young enough to be exciting…"

"You don't need your youth to be exciting… Sara. What, uh… what are you doing after this?"

"Hopefully getting a drink…"

He chuckled softly, and shook his head. "You certainly don't act eighteen…"

We spent a few hours by the pool, and I scribbled my address and phone number on a spare scrap of paper I'd fished from my tote before we left to our respective homes to change for our spur-of-the-moment evening out. I had walked back to my apartment, showered, noticing that I hadn't applied sunscreen close enough to my bathing suit—I had narrow red lines on each shoulder, on the top and bottom of my stomach and around to my back. …Maybe I should wear something I didn't need to wear a bra with, so that I wouldn't be in pain all night…

So then I was digging in my closet, looking for a dress I had bought on a whim the previous spring—Kelly had convinced me to try it on while we were shopping for her (I hated shopping), and once on, she had told me that if I didn't buy it, she would buy it for me. And she meant business.

I had to admit I looked good in it, I just wasn't much of a dress person. And, because of that fact, I had never worn it… I didn't even have shoes to go with it. Which meant I would be calling Kelly. God damn it.

I worked mousse into my damp curls, to keep them in line, while my free hand dialed her number in agitation. If I wasn't discrete, she'd be coming along on the date with us and giving him tips on places I liked to be kissed. …I had really given her too many details about Tyler and I's ocean-side trysts. She answers then, before I can chicken out and decide to wear something else.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Kelly, it's me. Are you busy at the moment?"

"Nooo, how was your day of reading at the pool? You know, I think I could have been quiet, you should have let me co—"

"Do you have black heels I could borrow?"

Her silence tells me I've failed my attempt at discretion. But time was running out…

"Yes, I do, Sara. Why do you need black heels?"

I glance at the clock in desperation. "Fine. I'll tell you everything if you can be here, with the shoes, in less than ten minutes."

"…You're on."

I'm unsurprised when, seven and a half minutes later, there is a knock at my door and then Kelly's voice in my apartment, because she always lets herself in.

"Hey, Sar', I'm here with time to spare. Spill!" The door closes, and I hear heels clatter to the floor of my entryway. I walk out in the black dress, cringing before she lets out her scream, because I know it's coming. "Oh my god, who is he?! When did you meet him?"

I laugh softly. "First date tonight… He… sat next to me at the pool."

"So does he go here, or Boston Bay, or where?"

"I, uh… I don't think he goes here…"

"You didn't ask what school he went to?"

"He's… he's a little older. Might be done with school."

"…Ouu, an older man! What d'you think, twenty three, twenty four?" I hesitate, trying to move around her to get to the shoes, but she blocks my attempt. "The deal was shoes for details. Don't think you're getting heels for your avoidance tactics, Sara Sidle. How old is this man?"

I sigh. "I didn't ask, exactly… but I would guess… late twenties, early thirties…"

Her look of alarm made me deeply regretful. She probably would have given me the shoes without details… probably. But I took the opportunity and brushed past her, slipping into the shoes that were a perfect fit and then moving back into the bathroom to blow dry and pin up my curls. She followed me, of course, shouting to continue her questioning over the blow dryer.

"So, what's old saggy's name?"

"Michael."

She rolled her eyes, upset that she hadn't gotten a rise out of me with her colorful nickname. "What does _Michael_ do?"

"He's an English teacher at a local middle school. During the summers, he rereads all the classics."

She rolled her eyes. "No wonder you like him. I'm starting to think that your sex drive is triggered solely by brains. He could be missing an arm and a half and you'd be good, as long as he could keep up with your assessments of Crime and Punishment."

I scoff, starting to attempt to pin the curls, and she takes pity on me and does it for me. I'm grateful. "First of all, I wouldn't date anyone who could only keep up with me… I want to be challenged. Secondly, he's just about the sexiest man I've ever seen—two arms and all."

She giggles. "Can… Can I stay and see him? I promise I won't even talk to him! I'll just… tell him I'm your roommate!"

I rolled my eyes again. "I already told him I live alone. Kelly, I don't want him to see me as being… typical eighteen. I want him to think I'm… mature enough to be with him."

She finishes with my hair and I grab my make-up bag, glancing at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes. "You're _not_ typical eighteen, Sara. Why should you pretend to be something you're not for a geezer?"

I smile. "Why should I pretend you live here so that you can mentally undress that "geezer"?"

"Fine… I'll be leaving right as he gets here." I groan.

"Can't you just wait to be introduced to him like a normal person?"

"He's old, Sara! What if he dies before I get a chance? No, I _need_ to meet him tonight…"

I nudge her as I toss the bag back into a drawer and double check my appearance before spraying perfume. We both move out into the living room, but she's still watching me. Apparently I can't just ignore her and hope she leaves.

"Fine. As soon as he knocks, I'll answer the door, you already have your shoes and purse on, I introduce you, you don't say more than "Hi, see ya later Sar," and then you leave."

She screamed again, hugging me, ecstatic. "You know, I think this is the first date you've gone on since I met you…"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm picky."

She giggled. "Apparently. When is Father Time picking you up?"

I glance at the clock again. "Five minutes. Listen, how do I look?"

"Lickable."

I roll my eyes at her crudeness, but a redness rises in my cheeks anyway and she grins. The knock at the door interrupts us. He's early. Shit.

"Coming!" I shout to the door, lowering my voice to her. "Shoes. Purse. Now."

I hurried over and opened the door, plastering a smile on my face. "Michael, Hi. Why don't you come in?" He stepped in and I took a deep breath to calm myself. "This is my friend Kelly. Kelly, Michael Malone."

She shook his hand, told me she'd talk to me later and left with only one or two crude gestures directed at me over his shoulders. She definitely approved. Once the door had closed behind her, he turned to me. "Are you ready? …I know I'm a little early."

I nod, smiling. "Just let me grab my purse." I move quickly into the bedroom, snatch the small black item off the bedspread, and hurry back out. "Okay…"

He put a hand on the small of my back as he guided me out the door, spreading goose bumps down my arms as I turned to lock the door behind me and tucked my keys into my purse. He didn't move his hand as we descended the stairs or made our way out to his car, parked in visitor parking. Kelly would want to know what kind of car he had, but at a glance I couldn't really tell you. It was nice, and new, but not flashy.

He took me to an expensive Italian restaurant, ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses—the waiter did not bother to card us, probably because Michael was clearly not of college age—and then started the inevitable first-date bullshit that I hated. Half-truths and avoidance tactics over pasta—always a favorite.

"So, you go to Harvard, you're a junior, but you're only eighteen, and you live alone. Sara Sidle." My eyebrows rise as he tries to sum up what he knows about me. "You enjoy sunbathing, great literature, and flirting with older men by pool sides…" I giggle, and he smiles the sincere smile again.

"You're not from Boston." It isn't a question. I answer it all the same.

"I'm from California."

"You moved here to go to school?"

I nod. "When I was sixteen."

"How did you manage to start college when you were sixteen?"

"I started first grade when I was five. I took a lot of summer school… not really an amazing feat."

"Your parents were okay with letting you move across the country at sixteen?"

My lips shift back and forth for a second. "It didn't upset them." That was honest. My father was dead, so I'm sure he didn't care, and my mother may or may not have been sufficiently sane at the moment to remember she was a mother.

"Okay… what are you majoring in?"

"Chemistry and Physics… I'm thinking about adding a minor, but I'm not sure what yet."

He grinned. "You know, I was never a… math or science person. Literature makes sense. Science and math are just… boring."

My eyes, I'm sure, sparked in indignation, but he was playful, and so I was too.

"Hey now, I don't criticize Shakespeare or Poe or… or"

"Steinbeck?" he offered me, and I grinned.

"I was going for someone who deserved criticism. …Hemingway."

He rolled his eyes, like he was bored, but his lips were curled into a smile. "Let me guess… based solely on your age and gender, Poe was creepy, Hemingway an asshole, and Shakespeare confusing."

My eyebrows rise up to my hairline and he's trying to control his laughter. Then I understand—he's baiting me. I narrow my eyes, giving in, a little, to see if he really wants to bait a woman who will bite…

"Poe was repetitive—some of his works were brilliant, others were opium-induced headaches filled with morbidity for morbidity's sake… no better than porn, except the obsession isn't sex, it's the macabre. Shakespeare isn't confusing, but he was certainly crude. Again, some of his works are brilliant, others are rushed, incomplete, the characters inconsistent and unbelievable, the plot contrived and recycled. … and Hemingway _was_ an asshole."

He laughed, really laughed, and then looked into my eyes, shaking his head in amazement. "I just might marry you, Sara Sidle, if you keep talking dirty to me."

I blushed, drinking my wine for something to do, and he laughed more. I finally felt like I was with a man who was my equal—like I was having an adult relationship, or entering into one. It was slow and subtle and seductive, and nothing like the frightened stuttering that had marked Tyler and I's flirtatious beginnings. But I think that's what I liked about it most. It was completely different from Tyler… I couldn't see any of him in Michael, and I didn't want to.

I figured it was a good sign.


	16. August 1990

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I know this, because if they were, _Sara would have been on last night!!_ Grr.

A/N: Again, I want to thank everyone for the reviews, they make me happy! ...Now, maybe I'm getting review-greedy, but I'd love to hear what people think about the story more specifically... some have done that already, and yeah, I feel like I'm being greedy now, but... like, for example, do you like the non-CSI characters? Little things like that, just reactions... you wouldn't belive how smiley I get! Anway, thanks! (And I'm really not greedy... please review, even if you don't want to give me details...)

I want to thank MSCSIFANGSR for pointing out two chapters back that the power rangers weren't on tv yet in 1989. I'm usually crazy about details, so if anyone notices mistakes like that, I'd really like to know! I really appreciate it, thanks!

* * *

Chapter 15: August 1990

Viva Las Vegas?

I took the job in Vegas—I started the first of August, which was good. I wouldn't have work-friends pretending to care about my birthday (34, god I was getting old…) after the inevitable one person remembered and spread the word around. It would be quiet, and that would be nice. I decided that, as I was throwing myself into the job—this was my new life purpose—that I'd probably be in Vegas for a while. So, after assessing my finances, I contacted a real estate agent in Las Vegas and started looking for a place to buy—a condo, or a townhouse, maybe. I didn't need a big house to myself, but I wanted something to call my own. Something permanent, that meant I had a place in the world in which to belong.

I found a townhouse relatively close to the crime lab, so the commute wouldn't be too bad—it was a three bedroom, which was a bit much for me as there was a separate area of the living room that was set up to be a home office, but I could afford it, and I felt something good about it, that I hadn't felt in the other places we'd looked at. It felt like it was right for me. Plus, there was no reason I had to use that little office area as an office… I could keep displays of my butterfly collection there, and use the smallest bedroom as an office.

Then there'd be a guest room, for my mother or… or Laura and Amber, if they ever visited. I was doubtful, but a man can hope, can't he? Amber's calls had been lessening as time went on… she didn't call me daddy anymore. She didn't call me 'Gil' either… she just didn't really give me a title. Laura had been dating a 'Mark' for half a year now, and so I asked Amber to give her the phone one night, after our telephone conversation. There was muffled movement, and then Laura's voice.

"Hey, Gil. How are you doing?"

"I'm really good, actually. Listen, uh… there are a few things I wanted to talk to you about."

She hesitated. "…Okay."

"Well, uh… first, I guess, is that I'm moving again, tomorrow. Uh, I got a great job offer at the Las Vegas Crime Lab so… yeah."

"Congratulations, Gil!"

I wave this off, though I know she's probably genuinely happy for me. I didn't tell her to get praise. "So, um, I'll be without phone for a couple of days, during the move… it's supposed to be set up by Tuesday, at the latest… but if you have a paper and pen, I can get you my new information."

"Yeah, of course. Gimme a sec." I heard more shuffling, and then a drawer sliding closed with a snap. "Okay, go ahead."

"Gil Grissom, of course, 1672 S Sunset Dr. Las Vegas, Nevada, 89120."

"Apartment number?"

"None. I, uh… I actually bought a townhouse…"

"Wow. You're really serious about Vegas, huh?"

I smile. "Yeah, I… I think I am. Listen, I'll get you my new phone number when I get it, but… there's a guess room in the new place if… if you and Amber ever wanted to come for a visit. I know… I know it might not be… fiscally feasible but…"

"Gil." She interrupts me. "We'd love to visit. Maybe for Christmas or… or for her birthday."

I nod, and swallow hard. "Listen, uh, I don't know how serious you are with… with Mark… but… but he's welcome too. I don't… I don't want Amber to feel like… like she has to choose between the father-figures in her life."

She's quieter, this time. "Thank you."

"I, uh… there's something else."

"…Okay." She waits patiently and I draw in a deep breath.

"I… I don't know how Amber views me, anymore… and, and if I'm not really 'daddy' anymore, I mean… that's okay. I'd still like to be a part of her life… Maybe…" I hesitate, and then finally speak without hesitation or second-guessing myself. "Oh, hell, Laura, you know her better than I do. If… If you think she's struggling with it, or she doesn't know how to treat me… tell her that I'll be whatever she wants me to be. Daddy or… or Crazy Uncle Gilbert or… just a friend of the family. I… I don't want my presence in her life to be confusing."

"Gil…"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to marry Mark."

My eyes fall closed and I take in a deep breath, my hands trembling. I force myself to speak.

"Congratulations, Laura… I'm… I'm happy for you."

"Gil, she… she calls him Mark, still, not daddy… but I don't think she _knows_ what to call you. I just… kind of left it, I wanted her to decide what to call you. …But she loves you, Gil. She talks about you all the time."

I nod, taking comfort in the small joy, though I worry that I've been replaced. What could I really expect, though, living across the country? I push my hands heavily to the table before me, to stop the trembling. "Good, good. Just… uh… tell her she can call me anything, and I won't be upset, no matter what. You… you guys should think about visiting. I have a guest bedroom and… I'm thinking about putting a futon in the office, so… so there's bed space for the… three of you."

"Great, Gil. I'll talk to them about it… Thank you, for everything."

"Yeah… Of course." I said, though I wasn't sure what she was thanking me for. "Listen, there was one more thing…"

"Yes?"

"I, um… I just got a pay raise, for the new job… I'll be on a different pay schedule, so you might get the checks at a different time of the month, but they're going to be a little larger… once I figure out my new finances."

"Gil, I was… I was going to talk to you about that too. With… with Mark and I pooling our incomes… you… you really don't need to send the money every month. We'll really be okay."

I swallowed convulsively, my throat dry. "I… Laura, I _need_ to do this for Amber. I… I can't just… not. Do… do you have a college fund started for her? Put it in there, if you don't need it to support her in other ways… She's… God, she's smart, Laura. She deserves the best education we can give her. I don't… I don't want money to stand in the way."

I can almost hear her nodding on the other side of the connection. "I have… I have a little one, mostly from money you sent that we were able to save… I, uh, I was actually going to go talk to someone, in the next few weeks, about a way to invest it so it can grow…a CD or something…"

"Great. Put the money I send towards that, then. She needs it."

"Okay. …Thanks, Gil. I'll… I'll let you know, about visiting."

"Good. …Okay. Uh... Bye, Laura."

"Goodbye Gil."

I looked around my empty apartment—there were boxes cluttering all the available space, but it still felt hollow, like nothing was left. But I was looking into my future now—into the bright rays of the desert sun and into a job I could make my life's work. And Amber still loved me. I didn't need a title, I just needed to provide for her. And that was _all_ I needed.

It… It would have to be.

* * *

Dating Michael Malone

Kelly was sprawled across my couch while I got ready. She'd brought over a wide selection of her own wardrobe, because I'd used up most of my dress clothes on the first five dates Michael had taken me on. Although the first night had been dinner and a movie, and a soft kiss on the cheek, I'd received a call the next day asking me when I was free again. It was the summer, so I only had my work schedule to work around, and I'd glanced at my schedule excitedly. "I, uh… I'm off on Thursday night… or… Sunday afternoon."

His response had made me giddy. "How about both?"

Thursday we'd gotten dinner and gone for a walk in the park, sharing our first kiss in the moonlight. I wanted to invite him in, but I didn't. I had to remind my brain to make the decisions, rather than my hormones.

Sunday he'd told me to dress casually, and clad in jeans and a shirt I thought made my boobs look great, he'd taken me sailing. We'd had a picnic just outside Boston Harbor, complete with sandwiches he'd clearly made himself and cold beers. We kissed, a little, but mostly we talked, and I learned a lot more about him.

He had loved books since he was a kid—majoring in English, at Boston University, had been a no-brainer. He'd lived in the city his whole life, and never once found himself lusting after a college student… at least, not since he was in college himself, he qualified. I grinned.

His parents had moved to Florida, for retirement, but he visited them every summer. That was where he'd gotten the gorgeous tan, I noted to myself. He'd never been married, but wanted to fall in love, get married, have a family… He asked if I wanted the same, but I don't think he expected my answer to be anything but an adamant "yes."

"I don't know. I… I struggle with marriage. I want to fall in love… I don't really want to participate in a ceremony based in the transfer of ownership from a woman's father to her husband. It all seems so… contrived. As for children, I'm torn on the subject. How can…" I hesitate.

"How can what?"

My lips twisted. "How can somebody who has never been parented be any kind of a parent themselves?"

His eyes narrowed sharply. "…What do you mean, Sara?"

I turned my gaze seaward, and took a swig of the beer I held between my denim-clad thighs. "Nothing, I just don't know if I want children. …Tell me about the book you're reading with your seventh graders the first week…"

He allowed me to change the subject, but his eyes remained narrow the rest of that day. He kissed me passionately at my door, but did not ask to come in, nor did he seem to expect it. When we parted, he was smiling his genuine smile again… my favorite one. "When do you get off of work, tonight?"

I smile. "Ten. I should be home by a quarter after…"

"I'll call you; see when you're free next week?"

I nod. "Okay, great."

And at 10:15 exactly, I'm setting my keys down and the phone rings. I answer, breathlessly, and it's him. I'm free Monday night, Wednesday all day, and Friday night, Saturday morning and afternoon…

He grins, asking if I would be upset if he dominated my social calendar all week. I laugh, telling him that I'm good with it, but Kelly might come after him. He says it's worth the risk.

The next night we eat Chinese takeout at his place, and watch an old movie—I forget the name… something with Audrey Hepburn. I missed most of the movie, as we ended up sprawled on his burgundy leather loveseat, me beneath him, breathing heavily just from the way he kissed me. I couldn't imagine what he would do to me once we moved past kissing…

I wondered if he was moving slowly because of my age or because it was the way he always would have progressed a relationship. I wanted to ask, because I didn't want him to treat me differently because of my age, but I was also nervous… I appreciated that the slowness was something I could count on. I hadn't been with anyone since Tyler, and so I felt as good as a virgin in the arms of the most experienced, most talented, sexiest man I had ever been so close to. Even being the perfect gentleman—his hands running through my hair, over my arms, my sides—his touch excited me beyond my wildest dreams. He certainly knew what he was doing, and while I was nervous, my body responded to him without any conscious intention to do so.

Wednesday, during the day, we watched a little league game in a park, had a lunch consisting of lukewarm hot dogs and warm coke, and then he suggested I call Kelly, when we got back to my apartment, and we could all go to a movie and grab a late dinner. I looked at him, surprised, and he laughed.

"Well, based on the fact that she's managed to be at your apartment every time I've come to pick you up, and by the annoyed look on your face until she leaves, I've gathered that she's enjoying our relationship vicariously. I thought… maybe it'd be nice to meet your best friend, and she could get to know me directly." He nudges me, a sly grin on his face. "…Maybe it'll stop her assaulting me with her eyes every time she sees me."

I giggled in surprise, but did not deny his accusation, and called her to ask. Of course, she agreed. It was Kelly.

The movie was a comedy, and we all enjoyed it thoroughly. We ate at a seafood place, just off the water, and by the end of the date Kelly was giving me looks that directed me to both marry and have sex with him… in no particular order. I giggled uncontrollably, and Michael just placed a hand on the small of my back as we walked to his car. He seemed almost smug, and then I realized that this was part of the plan—the big scheme in his seduction—he knew that to win me over completely, he needed to win over the friend. And now… he had an ally in that seduction. I wouldn't be surprised if I found out, in a week or a month or more, that she'd been feeding him tips from that night on. My lips twisted. He was sneaky.

We dropped her off and then he took me back to my apartment, walking me to the door. We kissed passionately for a moment, my back pressed to the wood, and I wanted to invite him in… but I didn't want to give the wrong idea, either. I hesitated, after he'd pulled away and told me goodnight, and he smiled softly.

"Sara… please, just tell me what you're thinking? I don't want… I don't want our ages to impact how we speak to one another… how our relationship progresses."

And so I sigh, biting my bottom lip, and look up at him. "I… I don't want the day to end… I want to ask you in, but…"

"But you don't want that to be perceived as an invitation to sex?"

I nod, softly, and he smiles. "I can't promise that I won't have my hands all over you, Sara… but I can promise that I would never do anything you didn't want me to do… never keep going if you told me to stop. I… I know you don't want to hear this, but I… I expected that we would wait longer, before we… slept together. There's nothing wrong with taking it slow…"

I sigh heavily. "Would you expect to wait longer with someone older?" I ask the question, expecting his answer to be no, of course. But it isn't.

"I would expect to wait longer with anyone who doesn't seem to have had a lot of relationships… no matter how old they are."

My eyes meet his, and I'm worried. "Did Kelly—"

He interrupts. "She didn't tell me anything, Sara… I can just tell. It's... Look, can we have this conversation inside?"

And so I let him into my apartment, locking the doors and slipping off my shoes. He follows suit and we both move to the couch, as if there had been no break in our conversation.

"I was just trying to say that… that it isn't a bad thing to have limited experience, at any age, but especially at eighteen…"

I nod, my lips shifting side to side as I think. Then I meet his eyes. "How many women have you slept with?"

He purses his lips, but answers immediately, and honestly. "Four." I nod. He's thirty… that hardly makes him promiscuous. This bolsters my self-esteem for the inevitable reciprocation of my question. "How many men have you slept with?"

"One." He looks a little surprised, and so I ask the follow-up. "You thought I was a virgin?"

He tilts his head. "I thought it was a definite possibility… Can… would it be too personal to ask how many… times… you slept with him?"

My eyes are on the floor now. He sees through me, of course. "Once."

And then he nods, feeling as if he's been proven right. I might not be a virgin, but having had sex once hardly counts, really… I think his questioning is done when he pulls me gently into his arms, his fingers running through my curls, but I'm wrong.

"How… how old were you?"

Normally I would be mad, but I can't bring myself to be, not when he's holding me so gently. "Six… sixteen." I say, mad at myself for stuttering over the word. He drops a few kisses into my hair.

"How old was he?"

"Seventeen."

He tilts my head up to look into my eyes, and brushes his lips against mine softly. "No offense to him, because… I'm sure he was fine and wonderful and… and all that but… at seventeen, you're just doing everything in your power to not lose it with every little movement… I… I don't think you've ever had a complete sexual experience with a man, and… and there's nothing wrong with that. I just don't want… anything rushed between us. Because you deserve that moment to be perfect, whether it's with me or… or whether you get sick of me and decide to share it with someone else…"

He kisses me more fervently then, and I'm nodding in agreement with his words even as my body reacts to the kiss. My body is pushing against his, and his arms wrap around my waist, as if he senses the shift my mind has taken. We fall back on the couch again, and soon we have to break from the kiss, gasping for breath. He rests his forehead against mine, looking into my eyes.

"Sara, I… I didn't bring all this up to… to pressure you or…"

I cover his lips quickly with mine, to stop his protests. "I know. I… uh… no sex…yet, but… but you don't have to be afraid to touch me, anymore." I grasp his hands, where they rest on either side of my head, supporting his weight. At my tugging, he lowers his weight gently onto my body and frees them, letting me guide them to rest on my chest. His already rapid breathing hitches for a second, and his eyes are uncertain, but after a moment he gives in, capturing my lips again, almost frantically. He didn't leave for several hours…

And now, two nights later, I was digging through Kelly's wardrobe, desperate for something he hadn't seen me in yet. She gets frustrated at me, sitting up and pushing me aside. "Here," she says, passing me a light blue skirt, tailored to give my skinny figure shape, and flowing… I put it on without argument as she continues to thumb through the piles. It falls gently at my knee, and then she's passing me a black, short-sleeved shirt, with a low-cut v-neck. Again, I dress without argument. She grins at me. "Oh, Sara, what would you do without me?"

I grumble. "I managed to get a boyfriend without you…"

She rolls her eyes. "But not to dress yourself for the first date… Still, I have to give you props… he's the sexiest old man I ever laid eyes on. Have you done it yet?"

I blush. "No, and it'll probably be a while, so don't get your hopes up."

She giggles. "If I had him, Sara, I wouldn't be waiting…"

"Yeah, yeah, you're all talk, miss I'm so horny all the time but I've only slept with one person and I dated him for three years first…"

She laughs though, immune to my teasing. "You have better luck with men, what can I say? …So, what are you guys doing tonight?"

"He's cooking for me, at his place… and then we'll probably put in a movie we have no intention of watching and make out…" I shrug, and she laughs again.

"Why not just let it go a little further…?"

I giggle, despite myself. "You are nothing if not persistent…"

She giggles too. "Let's just hope he is too! For _your_ sake… I didn't want to tell you, Sara, because you'd probably have killed me but… you've been grumpy lately. You _really_ need to get laid."

There's a knock on the door, which I'm sure is Michael, and so I don't even respond to her taunting as I move to open the it.

How I ended up with the smuttiest girl in Boston for a best friend, I'll never know.


	17. September 1990

Disclaimer: Yeah, I know, they're not mine...

A/N: This is one of my favorite chapters. Let me know what you think! :)

* * *

Chapter 16: September 1990

The lights of home.

It was ridiculously hot, living here, but I worked the graveyard shift so I slept through most of the unbearable desert heat, and Las Vegas was a sparkling wonderland at night. You had to view it with a wry eye, to truly have a picture of the city—the strip, of course, was iconic… the town had been build on the dimes of every person who had ever come to drink in the splendor of those lights… to take in the lawlessness that was sin city. But still, if you disregarded the baseness of the motivations for everything that _was_ Vegas, and just watched the lights… it was beautiful, in a way. When I was working, I focused on the baseness, but when I wasn't… I liked the lights.

And work was amazing—Jim Brass was a stoic man, but always ready with a dry or sarcastic quip to take the edge off a gruesome crime. He had just been promoted to the graveyard supervisor, and I was happy to work under him. He was devoted to the lab, the evidence, and his CSIs. Between the two of us, we made it our mission to retrain the way CSIs worked in the field and in the lab.

Sometimes it was as simple as subtly correcting a misstep while processing a scene, and sometimes it took the form of a conversation with a specific CSI, or forcing them into training refreshers on slow nights… but the CSIs were good, on their own… they just needed to be nudged into perfection. There was one, of course, who seemed to refuse to look at me as his superior, though he was never out rightly insubordinate. Conrad Ecklie. Good CSI, but too concerned with sucking up, not concerned enough with the victim and the evidence… but still, all in all, a good team.

I came to love my townhouse. At first I had felt like it was a little too big for me, but I was making a lot more money than I was used to, and allowed myself a little splurging on new furniture for the rooms. I threw out my old bed, which had been falling apart anyway, and purchased a king-sized bed and bed frame for the master, a queen-sized bed and frame for the guest room, and a black leather chaise for the office—half chair, half couch, and big enough for Amber to sleep comfortable, if the need arose. There wasn't a lot of room for it, with all my bookshelves and the desk, but it helped to have my insect display cases out in the living area, in the little would-be office corner, and pretty soon I felt like it was home. Once I realized how pleased I was with the bedrooms and the office—how happy it made me to be able to personalize my own home, I broke down and bought new furniture for the living room and the dining room, and even bought new rugs and shower curtains for my two and half baths…

It was nice, to have something of my own. And besides Ecklie, I had quickly gained the respect of the lab and the CSIs who worked under me, as well as that of Jim Brass, my boss. I had a high-solve rate, and had finally mastered my emotional detachment from the scenes, except, of course, when it involved the most gruesome of situations. I couldn't stand men abusing the women they claimed to love, any sort of sexual abuse on children—although, any crime with a baby was enough to send me off the deep end…they all had Joshua's face…—and any drug crime related to kids. They just seemed like… the worst of the worst.

And though it was horrible, I loved serial killers. Not the killers themselves, or even the crimes—they were despicable—but it made my puzzle-eager mind race to understand their patterns, their motivations, to understand and predict and finally take them down. It was almost like a high, and so, even though I hated the crimes, I found myself almost hoping we would come across another, just so that I could take him down. It was thrilling, and before I had had time to realize such a thing could even be possible, I had found a home here. _Vegas was home_.

* * *

Nineteen.

Although Michael had wanted to keep me to himself on my birthday, Kelly had put her foot down, and so we were at the off-campus restaurant in which Jerry had tried to seduce me, tucked into a booth. Michael sat to my right, his left hand resting on my thigh, and Kelly sat across from us, as bouncy as ever. It was actually the night before my birthday—I had to work tomorrow night.

The table was littered with shot glasses, though we hadn't received our food yet. I wasn't drunk—again, I'd stopped myself, at four rather than three, so I was silly, but by no means incapacitated. Michael had stopped himself at two—he was driving—and Kelly had polished off the rest of them. She was getting progressively louder, and I muttered through her laughter that Michael shouldn't order her any more. He smirked.

Food was set before us, and I hoped idly that the food would help her absorb some of the alcohol. I was spending the night at Michael's for the first time tonight, and I didn't want to have to change those plans in order to take care of my drunk friend on my birthday. We ate until we were absolutely stuffed, and then, to my great embarrassment, we were presented with a large dessert to share while the wait staff sang Happy Birthday loudly, gaining the attention of everyone in the place.

Despite being stuffed, between the three of us we finished the dessert in less than a minute, and then Kelly pulled a package out from her purse.

"I guess Romeo here isn't going to give you your present until you're alone… so you'll just have to open mine now."

I glance around, aware that people are still glancing over at the table that was sung to. "Why don't I open it in the car?"

She giggles. "No, you have to open it _here_, Sara!"

She's way drunk. Ugh. I tear the paper off and—shrewdly—peek into the box instead of pulling the cover off entirely. My eyes widen in horror. "_Kelly!_"

She falls out of the booth laughing, and my face is glowing scarlet. "I just thought you two could use your birthday presents on your birthday!" She's shouting by now, and I'm mortified. I turn desperately to Michael, who pulls the package from my hand gently, replacing it with his keys.

"Get her out of here. I'll be out as soon as I pay the check."

I kiss him quickly, gratefully, and drag her out of the restaurant, barely keeping my anger in check. I could handle her being drunk, or I could handle the gift which she had presented me with, but I could not handle the combination of the two. I unlock the doors almost frantically, pushing her into Michael's back seat, and locking the doors, remaining sentry outside his driver's side door. She tries to talk to me through the window, and I don't look at her. When she's sober, I'll get mad at her. Right now, I just need to stay calm.

Five minutes later, Michael comes out, trading my package for his keys again, and kisses me before I move around to the passenger side. Kelly chatters all the way to her apartment, but I stare forward, out the windshield, my arms crossed over my chest. I'm not even so mad anymore, but I know I'm still irritated enough to say something I'll regret if I speak now, and I know she won't remember my cold silence in the morning anyway.

He parks in a loading zone, and we take her up to her apartment. I fish her keys out of her purse, let us in, and we lay her in bed, fully dressed. I set the purse and keys on her table, and turn the lock on the door handle before pulling it closed behind us. And then, finally, I let out a sigh of relief.

Michael chuckles, his hand finding the small of my back as we move back out to his illegally-parked car. I lift the package from my seat so that I can slide into it, and Michael's eyes flicker to it curiously, but he doesn't ask yet. I wonder what I will tell him, when he does ask… as if we needed any more pressure tonight.

He parks in front of his building and we pile out easily. I've been to his place plenty of times before tonight, and we discussed in detail that me spending the night didn't have to mean sex., so I'm not nervous… yet. His hand finds the small of my back again and I smile. I feel like no matter who else touches me, for the rest of my life, the gesture will always be irreversibly linked to him in my mind.

He lets us in, and we remove our shoes immediately. He locks the door behind us, and hands me the Harvard tote I'd had with me the first day at the swimming pool. I have a fresh pair of clothes for the morning, deodorant, a toothbrush, and my hairbrush tucked inside. I set it on a chair, on top of the package, pulling off my sweat shirt and laying it across the bag as well. _Now _I'm nervous.

He smiles, pulling me to him gently and kissing me. "Remember, nothing has to happen tonight… we'll just play it by ear."

I draw in a shaky breath. "I… I got on birth control… two weeks ago…"

His head shoots up in surprise, and I smile, despite the blush in my cheeks.

"Sara… honey, you… you didn't need to do that."

I nod. "I know… and… and we're still playing it by ear but… _if_ it happens, we're okay."

He takes a deep breath, like he's steeling his self-control, and then he turns and moves to the table, lifts a wrapped present, and passes it to me. It's a small, rectangular box, hinting undeniably at jewelry, and I feel a new nervousness come into me. "Happy Birthday," he says softly, moving up behind me. I smile.

"You… you didn't have to get me anything, Michael…"

He chuckles, watching my shaking hands over my shoulder, gesturing for me to open it. "I had to make up for whatever it is that Kelly gave you…"

I blush again, but refuse to comment, slowly tearing the paper from a white box. I set the paper on the table, and slowly open the white box to find… a black box, velvet. Clearly a jewelry box. I draw in a hesitant breath, already uncertain. "Michael… this… it's too much. I can't…"

He wraps his arms around me from behind, kissing my neck softly. "It isn't too much. I… I wanted to get you something…more… but I thought this was about all I'd be able to talk you into accepting. Open it, please?"

My hands are trembling as I pry open the little box, its hinges tight and new. Curled in the velvet, was a small, dark blue stone on a long silver chain. My hands trembled more, but his arms held me tightly. "Will… will you wear it, please, Sara? It's your birthstone. I promise it wasn't expensive… I _wanted_ to get you something expensive, I just knew you wouldn't accept it…but this isn't. …please, please, wear it?"

I took in a deep breath. It was hard to accept gifts from people… it'd always been hard for me. But the longing in his voice made me nod my head, my eyes shut tight. And then the box was pulled from my hands and I could hear him pulling the necklace from it. I kept my eyes closed. Although his arms were not holding me, he kept his chest tight to my back and peered over my shoulder to remove it. The contact of his body helped keep me calm. He said it wasn't expensive… that wasn't so bad.

I felt the cold metal brush against the skin at my throat and then his hands brushing my hair aside and fastening it around me. I was dimly aware that hot tears were falling down my face, and I wiped them away quickly, hoping he hadn't seen. But of course he had.

He turned my body to face him and embraced me tightly. "You… you don't have to take it, Sara. I don't… I don't want you to cry."

I shook my head slowly, burying my face in his shoulder. "I'm just… I'm not good at… accepting gifts."

He held me until I calmed down, kissing my hair and face softly and brushing away errant tears as they manifested themselves. When I pulled from him, regaining control, he smiled, seeming determined to bring the night back on track.

"Why don't we change into pajamas, curl up in bed, and watch a movie?"

I smiled, and choked out a laugh. "I… I didn't bring any."

He grinned mischievously. "Why, Sara, did you think you'd be sleeping in your clothes…?"

His hands at my waist slipped beneath my shirt, to rub gently against the skin of my lower back, sending tendrils of flame across my skin. I laughed softly, my voice husky. "I… I thought we'd probably fall asleep… exhausted…and naked."

I can see the shift in his eyes at my words, but he tries hard to control it. He starts to speak, and then thinks better of it and chuckles again. I grin. "I, uh… I actually might have something, come to think of it…" He looks at me curiously, and I blush. "Kelly's present was… items to be used… between lovers. One of the items was a… a nightie."

He laughed out loud. "Oh no. No wonder you looked so… alarmed. What… What else was in the box?"

I blush, but take his hand and pull him over to it, slipping it out from under my other belongings. I hand it to him, and he looks wary as he sets it on the table and pulls the lid off. There, tucked on top of white, lace lingerie, were several alarming items. Handcuffs. Lubricant. Edible body paint. Massage oil. A vibrator. Wax. A pocket Kama Sutra. He nearly fell over laughing as he looked over the myriad of "tools" Kelly had put together for us.

"Oh my god, Sara, I… I don't know how you didn't kill her, right then and there, in the restaurant."

I laugh too, glad he doesn't seem to be excited by the box, but rather as alarmed as I am. I slip the lingerie out from under the other things and peck him quickly on the lips. "I'll be right back."

He nods, still looking stunned, and I giggle. Maybe I'm not so naïve, after all. I mean, it certainly wasn't all bad… but it was a little overwhelming to have it all thrown at you at once.

I return, nervously, having never worn lingerie for a man before, and he's lying in bed, on top of the covers, in only boxers. I smile, and blush, and curl up next to him when he pats the space next to himself. I glance at the clock—11:45. Fifteen minutes until my birthday. I lift my body up until I'm leaning over him, lying on my side, and kiss him softly, an action which he returns willingly, his tongue slipping playfully over my lips and into my mouth before we break apart. His hands remain, steadfast, on my waist, and I can see the effort of his restraint—trying to not touch me in the lingerie. I smile.

"You've almost lost your chance to sleep with an eighteen year old… time's running out."

He smiles genuinely and kisses me again. "I never wanted to sleep with an eighteen year old, Sara… I want to sleep with you."

He lets his hands move over my body then, and I'm lost in the feel of his hands and his lips as they descend upon my skin, trailing across my neck and my collar bone. He really is much more experienced than Tyler was—he had always had to test each action, relying on my responses to guide him… Michael knew what I would like before he did it, and my gasps of pleasure and surprise were no surprise to him. He enjoyed them, but he didn't need them to know how to seduce me.

He didn't remove the lingerie—I think he liked the idea of keeping it on—but when he found himself between my thighs, he scrunched the nightie up over my hips so that he could spread my legs fully. …And I'm not nervous as he assaults me with fingers and his mouth—I'm simply lost in the oblivion of all that his skilled hands had promised as they made their way down to this point. I didn't have to work for the orgasm that came, either, like with Tyler… it surprised me. I felt the building, driving intensity, and then all of a sudden I had gone over, without even knowing how close I was. Somehow the surprise of it made it more intense, like being slapped in the face, but with the greatest of surging fulfillments racing through your body, instead of pain.

When I came back down, and opened my eyes, his face was above mine again, and I could feel the entire length of him against me, cradled between my legs. He isn't certain, and he watches my eyes, trying to see what I want. My hips rock up, and we both gasp as he slides against me. He grits his teeth and "Oh, God, Sara," escapes his lips.

"Make love to me." I don't feel nervous, I feel certain. I try to communicate that calm to him.

He swallows hard, watching my eyes apprehensively again. "Sara… you… you had a few shots, didn't you? Are you sure you're in your right mind…?" I raise an eyebrow at him, but he needs to make sure. "Okay, okay…what's, uh… what's the atomic weight of… titanium?"

"47.90."

He laughs, a strange, almost strangled sound, like his desire is battling with his humor. "I… god, I hope that's right…" and he slides himself slowly into me.

My back arches and I moan my approval, matching his shuddering groan, as he buries himself completely. He's bigger than Tyler, but it doesn't hurt… I just feel _more_ filled up, more _complete_. He looks at me. "Are you… Is it… okay?" He brushes a strand of hair from my face and I smile softly.

"It's perfect, Michael. It… it doesn't hurt at all. …Make love to me." It isn't a request this time, and he doesn't fight the desire in his eyes anymore.

He kisses me softly, and the passion of the kiss grows as he slowly begins to move within me. When we're both gasping for breath, he tears his lips away, burying his face in my neck, my name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

Through my delirium, and the growing intensity, my eyes catch the clock on the wall above his television: 12:06. I'm nineteen.


	18. May 1991

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I was going to wait to put up the next few chapters, but the next few have more Grissom, and I feel like I've been neglecting him. So, I hope you enjoy!

Thanks again for reviews--someone asked if I'm done with the story, and I'm not but I'm quite a bit ahead of what's posted. I'm just trying not to get ahead of myself, and end up not updating for weeks if I fall behind. There's 25 chapters in part one and I'm mid-way through chapter 19 in part two. ...But part two is still fairly rough. :) Still, they meet in the last chapter of part one so we're getting close! :)

Anyone else really mad that Sara wasn't on CSI last night though? Like, really, I watched the Catherine-baseball scene from 10x1 like a hundred times...

* * *

Chapter 17: May 1991

The Wedding

I flew to Boston for Laura's wedding the following May. Amber had just turned seven, and she was the most beautiful flower girl I'd ever seen… even if my experience with weddings was somewhat limited. And Laura was a beautiful bride. I told her, in the receiving line, how happy I was for her, and I meant it. I had never been in love with her, and without Joshua, I didn't even feel like the former life we'd been building gave me a hold on her… I cared about her and wanted her to be happy, and as long as Amber was still my little girl, I didn't care if she married all of Massachusetts.

I think Mark must have sensed the genuineness of my good wishes, and the platonic way in which I hugged her, because he shook my hand warmly and accepted my congratulations with no awkwardness. At the reception, my response to the inevitable question, "So how do you know the bride and groom?" was always "I'm an old friend of Laura's, from Minneapolis." I didn't feel like her guests needed to know I was a past lover and the father of the child she had buried in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, nor did I want to explain that I considered myself Amber's father; Today was a happy day.

And when my daughter swept my onto the dance floor, I spun her onto the floor with no inhibitions—as long as she was smiling, and giggling, and boogying, I was boogying right there with her. I don't think I remember even seeing anyone else but her after the dinner and the traditional dances were over. She didn't catch the bouquet, but the bridesmaid who had—Laura's sister, Annabelle—was kind enough to give it to her, and I appreciated that.

I stayed in Boston for as long as I could—I got about a week off. Laura and Mark's honeymoon was two weeks, so Amber stayed with me the first week and with Laura's Aunt Margaret (the one who had encouraged her to move to Boston) for the rest of the time they were gone. The week was the happiest I had been in as far back as I could remember. I read her stories every night, tucking her into the large hotel bed next to mine, and took her swimming and to the park or the zoo every day, wanting to fill up on all the possible memories that I could.

She went back and forth between calling me Daddy and Gil, but the title didn't bother me anymore. I preferred her to think of me as her daddy, but if she didn't, that was okay. We loved each other, and I was her father even if she started calling me 'Bugman,' like the guys at work had started to do. Before I dropped her off at her Aunt's, so I could catch my flight back to Vegas, I made sure I had loaded her up with close to fifty bug-related children's books, from the educational sort to The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and everything in between. And on the inside cover of each, in my messy scrawl, I penned the words "Love, Daddy."

I just needed to. She wouldn't think anything of it now, but I felt, inexplicably, that our time together was limited. I didn't usually trust premonitions, but when it came to my little girl, I felt safe was better than sorry. And so I made sure that she would know who I was, even if we fell out of touch. I framed several pictures of us together, meticulously writing the place and date along with our names on the back of each photo. I bought her a collection of baseball t-shirts, a Twins, a Cubs, and about six Angels' shirts, as well as an Angels' cap and her own baseball glove, bat, and ball.

I took her on roller coasters, small ones, of course, but enough for her to get a taste of the thrill and the adrenaline. I didn't know Mark, but Laura would never have done this with her, and I needed it, desperately. When I hugged and kissed her goodbye, her last words were "I love you, Daddy." And I whispered back that I loved her too, more than anything, squeezing her tightly. And for about the hundredth time since I'd fallen into the crazy life that was impossibly mine, I felt myself thinking the single, solitary word that had pushed me through the darkness: Enough. It was enough.

* * *

Confrontation

When we had fallen asleep, the night of my birthday, in absolute bliss, Michael had slurred out a single, irrevocable sentence into the sleepy silence of his bedroom. Though we were both so near sleep that no conversation could follow, no confrontation could ensue, I remembered vividly that the first time he told me he loved me was following our first time together.

This became the pattern—the normal course of action. We would make love, whether at his place or mine, and then, only then, as we were drifting to sleep, he would make his declaration to me.

I knew that he didn't say it when he thought I was awake, and fully aware, because he knew I wasn't sure what I wanted… how I felt about the whole love thing… how I really felt about him. It was half chivalrous and half cowardly, but I couldn't blame him. I was silently pleased that he restricted these words to moments in which I could choose not to respond, though there was no pretending between us anymore that I hadn't heard it. Somehow, it seemed like a moment in time that was separate from everything else—he could tell me how he really felt, and I had the choice—as I never would have if he'd made the declaration in daylight—to respond or disregard.

But by May the following year—nine months into our relationship and eight since we'd be having sex—my continued silence had become the problem we didn't discuss, but which permeated every conversation, tainted our thoughts each time we made love… a wedge that I'd unintentionally driven between us.

And then came the confrontation.

We were lying in his bed, watching a chick flick. I was snuggled into his arms, clad in only a white tank top and a pair of his boxers, my head against his bare chest. I could tell he wasn't watching the movie—his toes, sticking out of the end of his pajama pants near the bottom of the bed, kept twitching and flexing—the only part of his body that was not held completely and unnaturally still. After this went on for a good twenty minutes, I sighed, snatching up the remote and pushing the stop button, leaving the room dark except for the blue light of the blank screen.

"Tell me what's bothering you."

He averts his eyes. "You don't want to have this conversation, Sara."

I narrow my eyes. "Whatever it is, I _do_ want to have this conversation… did… did I do something wrong? Do you not want to be with me anymore?"

He scoffs at my suggestions. "You know it isn't that. You know it. Why even say those things?"

I chew on my bottom lip. "…You haven't made love to me in almost two weeks."

He shrugs. "We've gone longer than that before."

"Only before finals… and we've… you've never gone that long without trying to initiate something."

He doesn't answer me, but I let the silence linger, hoping that he will seek to fill it. I'm not disappointed—he waits more than a minute, but he does speak again.

"I… I'm tired of _having sex_ with you, Sara."

The words stung, deeply, and I blinked as tears sprung in my eyes. His inflection made me pause, however, fighting back my emotion. I needed to clarify. "I… don't understand."

He exhales loudly, his body tensed with the stress of the conversation. When he speaks, his words are soft. "I… I want to make love to you, Sara. I'm tired of… of feeling like it's just sex, to you. And you… you still call it making love, but in any other phrasing, that four letter word is never uttered—a taboo among taboos. And… when we're done, and you drift to sleep, ignoring my devotions that we both know you've heard, every time, since the first time… I'm… I'm left feeling emptier, less fulfilled, than before our interaction. Why would I willingly initiate torture?"

I look down, ashamed that I'd let it go this far, and unsure how I can really explain myself. But then he's speaking again.

"You… you didn't need to say it our first time, Sara. We'd only known each other a month… I got it. But… but I'm falling head over heels in love with you, we've been together almost a year, and I just… I want to know if… if you're not ready, or if you're still in love with Tyler, or if you're scared… or if you're…you're… _never_ going to feel that way about me. …I _need_ to know."

I swallow hard. "I… Michael, I…" Without realizing it, tears have begun to fall down my cheeks, but I wipe them away impatiently. This is more important than my own self-disdain at having let it go on so long. He's more important than that. "I… think it's that I'm not ready. I… I am scared. And I… do… feel _that_ way, but…" I drew in a long, deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I had to say. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. "Admitting… _that word_… is a… vulnerability."

He half-laughs, though there's no humor in it, and I feel him draw me against him tightly, trying to stop the tears that, for some reason, refuse to stop falling. "Of course it's a vulnerability, Sara… don't… don't you think I've been pretty vulnerable, repeating it how many times a week for… for eight months?"

Hot trails course down my cheeks even faster, but I fight back the sobs. Of course he has been. Of course I knew that… but he didn't understand. I… I couldn't _hurt_ like that again. I try to calm myself, scrubbing at my face in irritation. His gentle hands, much larger than mine, push my fingers away and he wipes the moisture from my cheeks himself, cradling my face between his hands.

"Sara, honey… tell me, please."

"To… to be that vulnerable, you have to trust. I… _don't_ trust anymore. It hurts too fucking much."

He paused, and I knew my words had hurt him, but I owed him honesty, at least. "Because… you trusted Tyler?"

I tremble. I hadn't told him that.

But I need to clarify… he needs to understand that it's so much deeper than that. "…Because I had already stopped trusting, and I made an exception for him…"

I can almost hear the thoughts buzzing around his mind—he knows nothing about my childhood, and very little about my relationship with Tyler. He isn't sure whether to ask what he did to betray my trust, or why I had already stopped allowing myself to trust by the age of fifteen. The silence stretches, and then I feel his hands release my face, running through my hair instead.

"Tell me what he did to you. …Please."

I lay my head against his chest, and he holds me in a vice-grip, which is exactly what I need. I feel like he's holding me together—the only reason my lungs can take in breath and allow me to keep speaking. "I… I was in love with him even before we started dating, but I didn't know it, at the time… I…" I half-laugh, sniffling. "I didn't know how to flirt with him, but… I started conversations about books I was reading while we waited for lab results, to keep him talking… arguing… I fell in love with his mind before I ever knew his body."

I wonder, as I speak, if my confessions of loving Tyler hurt Michael more, because I could not use the word so freely with him… but I wasn't in love with Ty anymore… that was what made it bearable to utter the word. I hoped I would get a chance to explain that…

"He… insisted on taking things slowly. We kissed at midnight on New Years, when I was fifteen. We didn't even get close to having sex for… almost a year and a half. I wanted to. I wanted to as soon as I realized how in love I was… I… I used to be a lot more spontaneous than I am now. I acted on impulse."

"You still do." He mutters softly, into my hair, and I smile, almost sadly.

"I used to be a lot worse… In May, when I graduated… we had a fight, because I got the financial aid package for Harvard… a full ride, and then some."

"He didn't want you to leave."

"I… I didn't want to leave either. But… but I couldn't give up my only leg out of the life I'd known and the person I'd spent my whole life trying not to be. I wanted to find a solution… use the extra money to help him pay for school out here or… use it to fly and see him as often as possible. I would have worked every spare hour in the day to save up money to make it work…"

"…But?"

"But… he wanted sacrifice on my part, and none on his. He…" tears start to fall again, but I let them, drawing strength from him to go on. "He told me, more or less, that I s-should be willing to give it all up t-to stay with him b-be-because… because he was the _man_ and w-we w-would depend on h-his income." My voice is shaking, but I don't stop. If I stop I'll never start again. "H-he said t-that it was more… more important f-for him t-to get an education, b-because…"

I couldn't continue, but of course he understood, and stroked my arms softly, whispering soothing syllables into my hair. When I calmed again, I forced myself to speak again. Michael deserved that.

"I moved to Boston for the summer. It was a summer program… I wasn't going to attend, so we could… figure everything out… but I left. I visited…" I hesitate, not wanting to have to explain who 'Jim and Marlene' are. "I visited in August, and we talked… we… we went for a walk on the beach, actually, to _our spot_. And… and he told me that we could find a way to make it work. He… he didn't take back his words, so I should have known better but… I was just so happy, and so I assumed that his willingness to find a solution meant that he valued my dreams—my right to have mine fulfilled as fully as he did his. We had sex, for the first time, right there on the beach… like, at… fucking three o'clock in the afternoon, for god's sakes…. And then… after, I… I told him how perfect our _first_ time had been. And…"

But like before, he understands, and speaks the words I can't. "He'd already had his first time, while you were gone for the summer?"

I nod, and he runs his fingertips gently over my back, just holding me and giving me strength. I sense his disgust for the boy who had betrayed me, but I can't bring myself to react. I just squeeze him, needing the absolution his embrace provides.

* * *

"The Very Hungry Caterpillar" by Eric Carle. I don't own this either. :)


	19. Still May 1991

Disclaimer: If I owned them, Grissom would have been honest about his 'sources' on that plane... :)

A/N: Sooo, please review! Thanks! :)

* * *

Chapter 18: Still May, 1991

Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science

The plane ride home was… interesting, to say the least. I hadn't really noticed a woman in a long time, and so maybe it was because I had spent a week with my daughter, and felt incredibly happy, that my eyes were drawn to the woman who sat beside me. Maybe it was just that she was so incredible a woman that, even through my haze, I couldn't ignore her. Whatever the reason, I found her intoxicating.

She had dark brown hair and eyes—I've always preferred brunettes—and a shapely, hourglass figure. She looked like she was roughly my age, maybe a year or so younger, and there was no wedding ring on her finger. She sat next to me, on the aisle, crossing exposed legs and, in doing so, causing her skirt to slide up further on her thighs. I directed my eyes at the back of the seat in front of me. I felt like a teenager ogling a classmate. What had gotten into me?

She turned to me, smiling, obviously unaware of my roaming eyes. "So, are you from the cities or is this just a connecting flight?"

I can hear the Midwest in her voice—the hard "o" on the end of "so"—and it gives me a strange twinge in my stomach, somewhere between joy and homesickness. I smile. "It's a connecting flight, but I lived in the cities for about two and a half years… almost three years ago, now."

"Oh, that's nice. So are you stopping to see family while you're here?"

I smile a tight smile—I had made certain I had six hours layover between flights, to visit Joshua—"Briefly. I assume you're on your way home?"

She smiled. "I am. I was born and raised in Minnesota."

I chuckle, avoiding at all costs looking at her legs, now that she has turned towards me. Something about long legs and dark hair always got me… "I can tell by the accent."

She rolls her eyes. "As far as American accents go, the Midwest's is tame."

I find myself smiling too much, leaning into the conversation, and remind myself to back up. I'm probably crowding her, and I know that nothing will come of it anyway. "This is true—it's nice though. You don't get to hear the "'Oh yah!'s' and the 'Yeah-You-Betcha's' too much in Vegas."

She grins. "Sin city is home for a former Minnesota boy... I'll bet that was a big change."

I smile at being referred to as a boy, and also at being labeled a Minnesotan, though I had lived most of my life in California. "It was. It really was. But you get used to anything… and the lights are nice."

She laughs at my simple explanation, continuing the conversation. "So what were you in Boston for; business or pleasure?"

I realize, with a sort of muted surprise, that she's flirting with me. I reign in my excitement, reminding myself again that nothing can come of it. I don't have any time after the flight, even for chocolate locks and luscious legs. "Well, a little of both, I guess. My daughter… her mother just got married, so I was taking care of her while they were on their honeymoon."

She tilts her head sympathetically. "I bet that was hard, being at your ex-wife's wedding…"

I shake my head. "We were never married. And… it wasn't really hard. I was just happy to spend some time with my little girl."

Her eyes sparkle, and I realize too late that looking like a loving, single father, not hung up on the ex, with the child across the country, could be misconstrued as quite the appealing set of traits, but it was never my intention to lay them out like that. I shake my head, pulling out my wallet—half because I'm stalling for time; I don't know how to respond to her interest—and show her the pictures of Amber in my wallet.

"She's beautiful."

I nod. "She is."

"I'll bet she looks like her mother." She says, noting the lack of my features in her face.

I chuckle, but I don't go into details. "Yeah, the near-spitting image." I put the wallet away. "What took you to Boston?"

"My brother and his wife live there. I just went for a visit."

"Oh, I'll bet that was fun. I'm sorry, I'm Gil Grissom, I don't think I ever introduced myself."

"Stacey Olson."

I laugh. "There certainly are a lot of you." At her look of confusion, I clarify. "Olson's, I mean. I think I knew three or four, when I lived in the cities. None of them were related."

She giggles. "Norwegians, don't-cha-know?" She says, in the thickest accent she can muster, and for some reason, I'm laughing so hard that I have to wipe tears from my eyes. She beams under my apparent praise, laughing lightly along with me.

As our mirth subsides, we become aware of the drink cart coming up the aisle, only a few rows down from us now. "Oh, shoot, I was going to grab my book before they got here…" She jumps up quickly, digging for a moment in the overhead compartment. To keep my eyes from her body as she stretches up, I instead pull out the magazine I had tucked in the pouch of the seat in front of me—the newest issue of Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science, flipping through the pages to scan the articles, uncertain which to read first or, in truth, whether I'll start one at all. I'm enjoying our conversation more than I could have expected.

She closes the compartment and slides back into her seat, refastening her seat belt. Moments later, the drink cart is present—I order a coffee and she a sprite, and I lay my magazine out on my tray table so that I can take my drink from the stewardess. Stacey glances at it, her eyebrows narrowing. "Your magazine puts my trashy romance novel to shame."

I chuckle, glancing at the cover of her book—a long haired, shirtless man pinning a half-dressed and wind-swept woman against a large rock, an ocean crashing behind them chaotically. "Believe it or not, there's probably as much sex in mine as there is in yours…" Her eyebrows raise, and I chuckle more, my eyes scanning the cover for an example. "Sex is one of the highest motivators of human behavior—an intrinsic consideration when evaluating the psychodynamic response to certain situations… like…" My eyes caught the word 'sex' and I began to read the title of the article. "Joining the Mile High Club—processing airplanes and the continued propensity to engage in airplane s—" I stop, realizing too late that my example is unintentionally specific to the situation we're in.

She giggles as I feel the heat fill up my face. "I'm sorry, I just… I just read the first one I saw, and—"

She laughs laying a hand on my arm. "I know, Gil. …Don't be such a gentleman; you'll hurt my feelings…"

I feel my blood race as her hand makes contact, and I quickly run her words over in my mind, unsure how to respond. She didn't want me to imply that I wouldn't want to have sex on a plane with her… was she saying that she wanted to have sex? On this plane? Or was she just being flirtatious? My hands are sweaty, and I swallow hard, wiping them on my jeans, uncertain how to respond to her comment, but she seems to know how to respond, placing a hand on the middle of my thigh.

I practically jumped out of my skin, and was thoroughly glad I'd worn pants that would conceal my newfound problem, at least a little. My eyes rise to meet hers, and our mutual desire was clear, though she seemed more ready to satisfy it than me. She chuckles softly, because I'm sure there's at least a little alarm mixed with the desire on my face. "Look, no pressure, Gil." She takes her hand off my thigh, and I groan softly, missing the contact. She smiles knowingly. "But, uh… if you want to test that article, let me know, and I'll meet you in the restroom."

I stare at her, shocked, and she grins and opens her novel. She's reading—I can tell by the way her eyes move that she isn't pretending—but I stare on, feeling frozen. Good lord, I _want_ to… I'm not a naturally promiscuous man by nature. I like the comfort of a relationship, the routine of commitment—but I am a man nearing 35, and I've spent most of my life out of a relationship rather than in one. This doesn't mean I've never had one-night stands, though, as I said, it isn't really in my nature. It doesn't fulfill me the way a relationship does, but in this moment, I'm feeling like it would be more fulfillment than I've had in… god, has it really been years?

And then it hits me: I haven't been with a woman, I haven't even seriously considered a woman, since Laura. When had we last had sex? ...She'd told me about Joshua at the New Year's Eve party… we'd had a quickie in the shower, before the party… so that would have been the last day in December, 19… 86. Four years, five months, I had been celibate and… and not fucking _noticed_? Not even _looked_ at a woman?

I tried to scan the past years, tried to look at it with some objectivity. A year of that, I'd had a family… Laura and I weren't sleeping together, and it really had been better that way—and I had truly been happy… I hadn't needed a sexual companion. When my body complained of what my heart no longer required, I took care of the problem, but it was an afterthought, a basic part of my routine, like brushing my teeth, or shaving every other day. And my excuse for the other three plus years?

I had barely managed to breathe—who could think about sex?

But all this thought about the family I had had—the emotions of loss that I'd managed to strangle into submission in order to function—were now dangerously close to the surface, and I felt the weight and tragedy of them as if they were newly fresh.

Stacey moaned softly, almost inaudibly, causing hairs to rise on the back of my neck, and I turn to look at her again, distracted, briefly, from my downward spiral. She's sitting still in her chair, eyes sensuously roaming over the words in her book—her legs are tensed, and there's a fierce look in her eyes, and her left hand is running up and down the exposed skin on her left thigh, so fervently that I think she must be unaware she's doing it, or she would not be so bold.

And so, after four and a half years of repression, with the tightening grief of loss realized anew clenching my chest in a death grip, making breathing a struggle again, I turn to the moaning woman beside me with a directness in my gaze and a burning running throughout my body, somehow intensifying and soothing my grief all at once, and she turns to me, despite her engrossment in her book. She understands.

I stand, filled with conviction, and move to a restroom, making sure to catch her eye before I close and lock the door, so there is no confusion over which stall I'm in. It's tiny, and I look around quickly, trying to judge the best position. If there were more room in front of the vanity, she could lean against it and I could enter her from behind… but no, with so little leg room, that won't work.

She's petite—I could probably hold her against the wall across from the mirror, and she could brace her feet against the sink—but a quick thought to the layout of the plane, and I realize I'd be rocking her against a wall with seats on the opposite side. I didn't want to be interrupted.

So she'd have to be up on the sink, I reasoned, and nodded, glad to have a plan of action in mind. I hadn't always needed planning—I had been a very impulsive lover, when it came to Becky—but years had passed, and I was nervous. If I didn't need to think about the how while she in here, I could focus on keeping it under control. After all, I had no idea how long I could last after having gone without for four years…

I hear the softest of knocks on the door, and I unlock it, letting her slip in, and relock it. We look at each other for a moment, but there are no words needed—they would add nothing anyway. I capture her lips, pushing her back against the sink, letting her feel the extent of my arousal. She moans and rubs herself against me, before pushing me back an inch or two.

I'm confused, pulling back, and that's when I realize she's tugging her skirt up her abdomen, to allow easy access. I groan softly at the lace that is revealed underneath, and she lifts herself to sit on the very edge of the counter. My mouth is on hers again, a hand moving down to rest on the top of her thigh, my thumb rubbing the bundle of nerves through the lace. She gasps and bites my shoulder, hard, to stifle herself.

The need to take her is overwhelming, and though I feel as though I'm obligated to foreplay—though she certainly doesn't need it, her underwear might as well have been run under the tap—she brushes my hand aside impatiently after only a minute, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans and wriggling them down my hips, just far enough so that I'm fully exposed.

Her hand moves over me, and I force myself to think of corpses, of autopsies, of insect timeline regression. I don't bother to remove her panties, simply pulling them to the side and thrusting into her with frantic and insatiable need. She's biting again—the crook of my neck and shoulder—to stay quiet, and I feel her nails on my back even through my shirt. It's at this point that I realize I've probably been loud—I haven't been actively shushing myself. I clench my teeth and bury myself within her, harder and harder, until moans are slipping out from her lips even though her teeth haven't yet let go of my neck and I feel her tremble—starting to tighten around me. _Oh god, she's going to come… _

The realization sent all thoughts of work and death from my mind, and I was suddenly at my own brink, without ever having realized I was so very, very close. With presence of mind I would have thought impossible at this point, I reach behind her and turn on the faucet—there's no way we'll be completely silent. At the thought of hearing her—her pleasure expressed low and guttural and insuppressible against my ear—my pace increases and I feel her muscles clench tightly around me, instantly triggering a forceful and intense orgasm on my own part.

We ride it together, allowing soft sounds to escape because we simply cannot hold them, and even after we've both come down, our foreheads pushed together and our breathing rapid, I feel her muscles twitching around my softening manhood. Reluctantly, I slide out, my hands on her waist to ease her back to the floor, making sure she's steady. I replace myself in my jeans, and kiss her softly, not wanting the experience to be unpleasant, even if I'll never see her again. She returns it, and smiles.

"You go back, I… uh… need to… freshen up."

I smile, glancing over her shoulder at the mirror briefly, to make sure I'm presentable to leave, and kiss her again. "You were incredible."

She grins. "So were you, Mr. Psychodynamics…"

I open the door a crack, making sure the coast is clear, and then slip out, waiting until I hear the door lock behind me before I move back to my seat. I feel shaky, flustered, but invigorated… and, for the first time in a really long time, fully satisfied. And then I realize that I didn't give a thought to birth control, I was just so eager to end my self-imposed dry spell. What was it with Minnesota women and my apparent, insatiable, need to spread my seed?

But she's beside me at that moment, flushed and smiling. She intertwines her fingers with mine, and I squeeze her hand. "Listen, Stacey… I… I didn't even think about… I didn't have a…"

She smiles, saving me from my discomfort. "I had my tubes tied, Gil. I have three beautiful children at home, with three assholes around the country who won't take responsibility. You don't need to worry."

My eyes soften, and I drop her hand to wrap my arm around her—somehow, this feels like the most intimate gesture we've shared. "I… I wasn't worried for my sake. I… couldn't believe that I'd done that to you. I should have thought of it, before—"

She kisses me, softly. "Thank you. I… I probably wouldn't believe you, if you were another man, but… but I see how you love your daughter, how you care about being a part of her life… and I think we both know she isn't yours, no matter what her mother is telling you…"

I chuckle then, softly. "She never told me Amber was mine. I… I met her mother when Amber was three. She's seven now… but… Amber was as much my daughter as any child could be, whether she was mine or not. I wasn't going to give that up just because her mother and I weren't in love…"

She shakes her head, pulling herself from my embrace gently, and drinking deeply from her now-watered-down Sprite. "You're every single mother's fantasy, Gil… why is it that you left the cities again?" She adds teasingly, nudging me, and I laugh, not letting my mind answer her question, because I don't want to even think the words.

I settled into my seat, drinking from my coffee though it was cold, and did not truly quench my thirst, and my eyes fell on the magazine again. I chuckle, placing a hand on her arm. "Should we compare?" I ask, gesturing with the magazine and then flipping pages until I find the article. I scan through it, with her reading over my shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. I find a passage, and read the appropriate phrases softly…

"…high altitude intensifies the entire sexual experience… increases the euphoria…"

She giggles against my shoulder. "I dunno if it was the altitude, or just because it's been like… shit, like a year, since I'd had sex… but it was pretty amazing."

I grin. "It was."

She tilts her head. "Do you think it's the altitude? Should I even bother with the experience again, say if I'm not sexually frustrated, and the stranger beside me is not half as charming or well-endowed?"

I feel my cheeks get hot, and I laugh. "You're a charmer. _Why is it I left the cities again...?"_ She laughs appreciatively at my teasing, and then I turn my mind to her question. "I guess… I guess I don't know, either, if it was the altitude… it's been about that long for me, as well."

The lie slips—one year, not four—pride, I guess. She smiles. "Well, at least we're _in the club_ now."

The plane begins its descent shortly after, and I quickly write down my personal information—I'd heard crazy reports, in medical journals, of the body repairing itself after vasectomies and tubal ligations. I knew it was unlikely, but I wanted to make sure she could contact me, in case I'd accidentally fathered another Minnesotan baby.

And then, after we said our goodbyes, I caught a taxi to the cemetery, stopping only to purchase a bouquet of two dozen white roses. I asked him to wait, and allowed myself only fifteen minutes to grieve, and then left the flowers on his grave. It was a long flight home.

* * *

Lies, Half-Truths, and Love

After our conversation about Tyler, we had both drifted into an uneasy sleep and awoken nearing dawn the next morning, the blue light of the movie screen mixing with the gentle rays of washed-out early sunrise. We both stretched and then snuggled closer, meeting each other's eyes and then looking away. I felt naked, exposed—it was a weak feeling, raw and chafing. There were several minutes of sleepy silence, but we were both waiting to see who would break the silence first. In my mind, there was no question. It would hurt him too much to pretend it hadn't happened—to suggest breakfast, for example—but I would not reinitiate our adventure into my private pain.

"Do you still love him?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and I draw in a deep breath, attempting to steel myself for the conversation that's coming.

"No."

"So… it still hurts you, because you let your guard down, and trusted him?"

I nod, slowly, realizing that though he made the choice to ask the easier questions, the night before, he still expects me to explain why I stopped trusting in the first place. Maybe he deserved to know why I couldn't make an exception for him too, no matter how I felt… but I wasn't sure he had a right to ask more than that. I didn't think I had the strength to tell him that. I'd never told Tyler… or Kelly…

"Are your parents alive?"

The question takes me off-guard. I never talked about my parents—birth or foster—except on one of our first dates—I'd told him that my parents weren't upset that I'd moved across the country for school, and that I didn't know if I wanted to have children, because I doubted whether someone who had never been parented could be a good parent themselves.

"Define _parents_."

He sighs, like I'm being difficult on purpose. This makes me angry, and I'm glad I'm making him work for every inch. "The two people whose sperm and egg connected to form you."

I keep my face blank. It doesn't take much effort. I've been practicing since I was old enough to feel shame at the circumstances of my life. "My mother is."

"Where is she?"

"San Francisco."

"So, when you grew up in Tomales Bay, you didn't live with her?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. It's hard to answer this question honestly without giving away too much. "I… I lived with her until I was seven."

"Who did you live with after that?"

My eyes close, and the blank expression wavers. I carefully adjust it. "A lot of people."

He flexes his jaw and relaxes it. "Do you talk to your mother?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I shrug. I'm not trying to be difficult, but I will lie to him if I try to answer his question, and I'm trying not to lie… I'll only lie if he forces me to.

He thinks for a moment. "Who did you live with before you moved to Boston?"

I consider this question. It isn't so bad… I won't have to relive the other homes, if I talk about this one.

"Jim and Marlene… Ruthers."

"Relatives?"

"Foster Parents."

He takes in a deep breath, knowing that I've suddenly told him a lot. I can almost sense his wavering, wondering how far he should push.

"Why did they separate you from your parents?"

I tense. I try very, very hard not to snap—to cry, or yell, or just tell a blatant lie to get the questions to stop. I take a deep breath. "They weren't good parents."

But he pushes. After an answer like that, _he fucking pushes it_.

"Did they hurt you?"

Anger boils in my chest, but the mask stays in place. And I lie. "No."

"Did they… drink? Or… neglect you?"

"No." I try not to let myself revel in how much easier it is to lie. I don't _want_ to lie to him.

"Was your dad… Did he ever try to…"

"No."

He nods softly, and I wonder if he knows that I lied. I feel guilty, but not enough to tell him so—it would be as good as telling him what happened.

"I… I love you, Sara. You… you don't ever have to say it back, and… and you don't ever have to tell me what happened to you. …but, I want you to know that… that I would be there for you. I… I wouldn't judge or—"

"Okay." I cut him off. I've heard it before.

There's another long silence, and again, he's the one to break it.

"…Did I just… ruin our relationship, asking all those questions? If… If I did, Sara, I just… I just want to say I'm sorry and… and if you don't want to be with me, you can just tell me… you don't need to spare my feelings, I'm a big boy."

For the first time, I move. I sit up in bed, turning my body around to look at him, directly. "What… what are you saying?"

He averts his eyes. "Just that… if I fucked this up, just tell me now. …If you're going to leave me, don't draw it out… I don't want a lie."

My eyes narrow. "Do… Do you want me to leave?"

He sits up, his eyes finally meeting mine. "No! Of course not, Sara! I just… I just didn't think…"

But I interrupt him, with my mouth on his, and the kiss burns and sooths and toys with us as it deepens. I pull back, after a moment, waiting until I catch his eyes. "I'm… Michael, I'm not going anywhere. I… I feel… God, damn it, Michael, I… I _do_, I just can't… say it."

His eyes are a strange mixture of pain, happiness, and hope, and I wonder if I should feel guilty about the hope… but he kisses me again, and I'm lost.

He moans out that he loves me all through making love, in soft whispered breaths and great screaming moans and between each delicate, labored, pant… and though I can't say it back, I try to show him with my body that I _do_ reciprocate. It's the best I can do, but he seems to understand… or, at the very least, he accepts it.


	20. August 1991

Disclaimer: Not Mine.

* * *

Chapter 19: August 1991

When I returned to Las Vegas, I decided I needed to date. I wasn't going another four and half years not even noticing that I hadn't had sex. And… I didn't want to be a forty year old man, living alone, having never truly loved anyone enough to want them forever.

The lab was still my life—we were making so much progress! We were operating at a level of efficiency and professionalism that I could not help but be proud of, and our solve rate was slowly becoming one of the best in the country. We were in the process of hiring some new lab techs—several had retired, and had decided it was a good opportunity to make the actual lab rats be some of the best in the country. CSIs alone could not elevate the lab to where we wanted it.

But, when I wasn't working… I needed to be socializing. I didn't like the idea of meeting a woman in a bar—not that it would be terrible, Laura had been an amazing woman—but it just didn't seem like the ideal place. But then where? I didn't want to pick up a new hobby just to meet women… I played poker with men, and I hardly expected to meet women at a chess tournament… People didn't really talk at amusement parks, though the idea of meeting a woman on a roller coaster was kind of intriguing… if it were a somewhat tame roller coaster, it could be a strange twist on the mile high club idea…

I shake that idea from my mind. I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

I could meet a woman at a park… at a theatre… at an… art museum. Lots of opportunities, and it would be doing things I enjoy. I wouldn't feel like a creep.

And so, I started looking into shows. There were the big ones, at the big casinos, of course—but I looked into smaller, off-the-strip theatres. Nothing that made me worry I'd end up in a room full of single guys with their hands down their pants—real shows, with credibility, just not 80 bucks a ticket.

And I really enjoyed them—I started to take flyers from the bulletin boards in the entrances, looking for other arts-related events, slipping easily into the fabric of this subgroup of the Vegas community. I started going to old movie theatres, to see classic and silent films. I never missed a low-budget, locally written production, and started recognizing familiar faces in the partially filled theatres. Some of the productions, I must admit, were terrible… but there were shows that I could only describe as mind-blowing. They would leave me contemplating their twists and deeper meanings for weeks—I would fall asleep analyzing the plot line and the character development rather than the cases I was working on at the time… and that was strange, for me.

There was a woman I saw a lot, over that summer—she had long, red-brown curls down her back, and her laugh made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. We had talked, on several occasions, and her take on the psychological states of the characters—her favorite subject to discuss—always made me reevaluate the conclusions I'd come to… in fact, I found myself trying to analyze motivations of criminals and victims and crime scenes in the way that she did—and I realized it gave me a lot more insight. There was a particular scene in which, having done this, I discovered several key pieces of evidence I wasn't sure I would have found if it had not been for this exercise…

That alone convinced me I needed to get to know the woman better. So when the next production rolled around, I was excited and nervous in my anticipation. I wasn't certain she would be there—it was a Sunday afternoon production, and she only attended those once or twice a month. So when I took my seat, I was not looking at the play bill or reading about the actors, or even about the play itself—I was looking around for her. She wasn't there, and as the lights went down, I sighed softly. Ah well, I would still enjoy the show, at least. And it had been a couple weeks since she'd attended a Sunday production… she'll probably be at the next one.

The curtains opened and I tilted my head to the side, taking in the scene—the woman near the back almost looked like...

And then she spoke, beginning the action of the play, setting up the background for the rest of plotline… Rebecca.

It was a good play, and she played the part expertly—expressively—seamlessly. She had gotten better, since Minneapolis, which was remarkable—she had been very good before. I watched the nuance of her words, her movements, her expressions—and I felt with her character deeply. I was suddenly filled with nostalgia… a sad longing for the much simpler life I'd shared with her—worrying over my mother's response to my adultery, my largest griefs in life the numb, distant passing of my father, and the faces I saw in my crime scenes.

It did seem much simpler, much easier.

I debated throughout the play whether to approach her, at the end… she could very well have a lover, or a husband, waiting to greet her with roses. It wasn't that I wanted to be with her again, but I also didn't want to be the long-lost ex-boyfriend who spoils the moment of her success that she wants to share with her current interest. I wondered when she'd come to Vegas, and why… And if she didn't have someone to share that moment with, did I want to approach her? If she lived in Vegas now, what would that mean? I didn't think I wanted to be with her again, though she was certainly as beautiful as ever… I wasn't the same man I had been when we broke up. I had baggage and scars and a little girl who wasn't really mine in Boston.

While I thought that these were not necessarily things that would bar me from entering into a new relationship, I couldn't imagine how they would figure into an old one, in which I had been another person entirely.

But, when the play ended and the applause had died down, I made my way down the stairs, bypassing the people who were leaving, following a steady stream of individuals to where the cast would come out to greet their personal guests. I lingered near the back, partially obscured by a pillar. If she were greeted by a large group, I would just leave.

She came out, but didn't seem to be looking for anyone. She stood by a cast member, shaking hands with the other woman's guests, smiling. I stepped out from the pillar, moving a little closer, and as she turns her head, her eyes catch mine. They're wide, and her mouth falls open, and then she's pushing past the strangers she's just met, moving towards me, and I feel like I did all those years ago, seeing her after her Guthrie performance, as she ran to me after the show. Flashes of the night we'd shared afterwards flicker in my mind, but they feel like they're from another life, too distant to distinguish details.

She stops in front of me, eyes on my face, and she looks like she doesn't believe I'm real. "Gil?"

I chuckle softly. "I was just as surprised when I saw you on stage. …You were incredible, by the way."

She smiles, and then hugs me tightly. "It's been so long. Are you living in Vegas now?"

I nod. "Are you?"

She looks almost regretful. "No, I just had a friend ask me to come stay for the summer, and I've been doing odd plays off and on since then… I fly back in a week, after the production is done."

I nod, and feel the question bubble to my lips. "We could have dinner, before you go back?"

She smiles, happily. "I, uh, have a cast party tonight but… but I can skip it."

I smile, but shake my head. "I have to work tonight, anyway… I work the graveyard shift, but I'm off tomorrow night."

She grins, and hugs me again. "Great! Listen, uh, lemme just get changed, and then I'll get you the number I'm staying at, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

She starts to leave, but then stops, mid-way, turning back to me. "Oh. …Happy Birthday, Gil."

The corner of my mouth turns up. It had been my birthday yesterday—my mom had called, and Laura and Amber—but this felt different. No one else in Vegas had remembered, and even though Becky wasn't really a part of my Vegas life, even if she was really part of a past life I hardly recognized anymore, it felt really good.

* * *

Nightmares

You would think that, having taken care of the unspoken problem, things would have gotten better between Michael and I… and they did, for a little while. He didn't seem upset that I couldn't say it, and he made love to me more confidently than he had in a long time, more passionately… and I had managed to say "me too" several times when, as we had lay exhausted and sweaty, wrapped up in each other, he had said the dreaded words again. It seemed like that helped… that I could tell him in some way, even if the L-word was still too hard.

The problem was that our conversation had dragged a lot of shit back to the surface—forcing me to think about things I'd tried not to think about for over a decade. I started having nightmares again—I hadn't had a _really bad_ one since I was fifteen, and I hadn't had any since I'd moved to Boston. Yet, somehow, all over again, I was reliving every horrible moment of my life in vivid detail each time I closed my eyes for rest.

The first night they came, I relived hiding in a closet, watching through the crack as my father and my brother fought.

_He'd knocked my brother unconscious, and then left, probably to go drink some more, and my mom had taken him to the hospital, muttering under her breath as she roused him and forced him to stumble his way to the car, because we couldn't afford an ambulance, about how she'd have to say some kids in the neighborhood had cornered him. She couldn't say he'd walked into a door for a beating like this. She left me in the closet, not even speaking to me before she left. _

_I had been terrified that my dad would come home. I pictured in my mind, over and over, him coming home and looking for me—or looking for my mother or my brother, his preferred punching bags, and finding me in the closet as well. He was always mad when I hid, but I was too scared to go back to my room and sleep. My mother and brother were gone all night—they'd waited a while in the ER, to be seen, and then they'd wanted to keep him there for all sorts of tests—internal bleeding and punctured lungs and all that… I waited for them to come home. I couldn't sleep until they came home. I thought my brother was dead, or dying, and that my daddy was going to come home and kill me too. Mommy wouldn't be here to drive me to the hospital, and I would die in the closet._

_My dad didn't come home until the next night, but my mother and brother returned very early the next morning. I had spent the whole night in the closet, awake because I was afraid to fall asleep, waiting for them. But I couldn't skip Kindergarten the next day, because we couldn't let anyone know that something was wrong. We had to keep Daddy's secret._

When I woke up screaming, tangled in the sheets, Michael looked like he wanted to run, far, far away. He didn't, of course. He held me and calmed me and loved me, but I didn't forget the look in his eyes. I had frightened him, and he wasn't sure if he could handle it.

I didn't stop staying with him, or letting him spend the night, because I wasn't sure if they were back for good, or if the one had been a fluke. After all, though my response to the nightmare had been extreme, the nightmare itself was mild. Maybe they would go away again.

The second one came two nights later, and it was a lot worse.

_I was eight, and in my fourth foster home. I didn't like it, but there was an older boy—he was seventeen, he'd been in foster care for a long time, he said—who was really nice to me. When I was sad, or scared, he would make me feel better. But he was a lot older, and he liked to do things with the older kids, and I didn't really talk to anyone else. _

_There were lots of kids in this home—Ryan, my friend, and a boy a little younger than him… and two girls who were twelve, they were twins, and a baby girl I liked, but wasn't allowed to touch. Hayley. I watched her, even if my foster mom got mad if I got too close. I wasn't going to hurt her, I just thought she was sweet. The only thing I wanted to be in the whole world was a Mommy. I missed _my_ Mommy. _

_My foster mom was shopping, with Hayley—she always took Hayley with. The older girls were spending the night in supervised visitation with their parents. They did this once a week, and I was always sad when they left. Not that I missed them—it just reminded me that I had no one to visit. My first foster parents had made me visit my Mommy, but now nobody told me to go see her, or asked if I wanted to. She didn't really notice me, when I went there, so I guess it was okay._

_Ryan and the other boy, Alex maybe, had just gone to play football in the field across the street with some friends from school. I didn't have any friends at school… I didn't like to talk to people. They made me nervous, and they asked questions that made me cry. My foster dad was home, watching a game on television… I don't know which sport, and because I felt scared in the house when I was alone, I went and sat on the couch next to his chair, and sat really quiet, so I didn't disturb him. _

_He turned to look at me, slowly, and I was reminded of my Daddy. I tried to get up, to leave the room. Maybe I'd go watch Ryan and his friends… I didn't want to be around people I didn't know, but I wanted Ryan right now, really badly. He made me feel safe. He checked for monsters under my bed, even when the twins laughed at me. When I got up though, he got up, and all of a sudden I was on the floor and I couldn't move. He was holding me down and I kicked and screamed, trying to get up, but he was so big, and my arms hurt from how tight he was squeezing them. He kneeled on top of my legs, so I couldn't kick him anymore, but he was really heavy and he made my tummy hurt. _

_I was crying and I kept trying to pull myself free, because it hurt and his eyes looked like my Daddy's eyes, and then my shirt ripped… I don't know how, but it scared me more. I was already so scared; I didn't want to be naked too. I was always scared when I had to be naked. I hated baths. I smelled him before I realized how close he was to me. He smelled bad, and I feel like I was going to throw up. I was choking on my tears and I felt him bite me, hard, on my chest. I screamed and cried and kicked, but I couldn't get him off, and it _hurt_. Really bad._

_And then he was gone. I blinked through my tears, trying to be calm enough to figure out where he'd gone, trying to make myself stand up and run. Ryan, my Ryan, had pulled him off me, and now he was hitting him on the ground. I was still scared, and I couldn't stop crying, but I watched. My foster dad hit Ryan back, and he stumbled backwards into the dining table, and then I knew what was going to happen. I'd seen what happened every time my brother had been thrown back like that._

_My teacher in school had taught us to call 911 if somebody we loved were really hurt or really in trouble. She had warned us that you couldn't call the number for fun or for little owies, but for big ones you should. I ran to the phone on the little table and pressed the numbers frantically, the little song she'd taught us playing in my head, even as I was crying and shaking._

_The lady asked me what was wrong._

"_He's hurting Ryan. I'm scared. I don't want Ryan to stop moving, like Jeremy always did. You need to come stop him."_

"_What's your address?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Do you know what street you live on?"_

"_Chestnut."_

"_What are the numbers on the door outside?"_

"_Um… I don't know. It's a brown house, with lots of steps…"_

"_Okay, sweety, is there anyone I can talk to who knows the address?"_

_For the first time since I'd picked up the phone, I look back to the men fighting. At least Ryan looks okay. They both look hurt, but they're still moving. "No."_

"_Do you know where you live close to?"_

"_I walk to school in the mornings. It's just down the street."_

"_What school do you go to?"_

"_Lincoln. Are you going to come help Ryan?"_

"_Someone's coming, sweet pea. Are you okay? Is he going to hurt you?"_

"_He already did. He pushed me, and bited me. That's why Ryan grabbed him. And now he's hurting Ryan!" I wailed in despair, but I can hear sirens, and my teacher at school told me that good people, like police men and fire fighters, had sirens. _

_I don't hear the woman's response, because all of a sudden there are people everywhere, and they're pulling Ryan and my foster dad apart, and when they look at me, I remember when my daddy died. There were people, like now, in uniforms. And they looked at me the same way—their eyes looked sad, but also like they were looking at something yicky, like a bug or a booger. I don't like to think about when my daddy died._

_Someone wraps a blanket around me, and I sit in the ambulance next to Ryan, who keeps looking at me, while the man pokes at him and asks him questions. I remember they made me take the blanket off, at the hospital, and a doctor looked at my bite. Then they gave me a hospital gown, and made me sleep in a room with little kids. I wanted to see Ryan, but they wouldn't let me._

_A week later, I was living in a new house, and I never got to tell Ryan thank you for saving me. I never got to tell him that I loved him as much as I loved Jeremy, and that I wished I was his little sister too. _

I wake up from this one moaning and muttering, and my whole body is shaking. I'm not screaming, but this response frightens Michael worse. He tries to wrap his arms around me, and I flinch away from his touch like it burns me. He looks hurt, but I don't have it in me to reassure him. My left breast is throbbing like the skin has been broken all over again, and I feel his body, his weight holding me down. I can't stop trembling. He reaches out to me again, but stops before his hand ever makes contact with my shoulder at the look I give him. I mutter something about a shower and tear into the bathroom, turning the water on as hot as it goes and stepping inside immediately.

It burns, but I know from experience with the nightmares that if it doesn't burn, I'll still feel him all over my body. I scrub at my skin until I can't feel it anymore, except for a raw numbness, and then the water starts to get cold. I turn it off, and step out, not wanting to redress in the clothes I had the nightmare in. They feel dirty.

So I wrap a towel around me and step out, knowing that now I will have to face Michael. The lights are all on, and he's sitting in the center of his bed, his hair sticking out at odd angles. I'm not sure if this is from sleep or from running his hands through it over and over—a nervous habit of his. When he sees me though, he leaps to his feet and his eyes look even more concerned.

"Sara, honey, you're all red…" He tries to reach for me, but then stops, seeming uncertain. I move against him, laying my head against his chest.

"I'm sorry if I worried you."

"You're all red." He repeats, and I wonder if the hot water and scrubbing have really left me looking so badly or if it's more that he doesn't know what to say to me.

I nod, regardless. "The… hot water."

There's silence, and then he gently pulls me back to the bed and pulls me in close to him, cradling me against his chest. "Do… you want to talk about it?"

"No." It's the same answer I gave him two nights ago.

He sighs, betraying some of his frustration. "You're obviously upset, Sara. Why don't you let me help you? …Who's Ryan?"

My head snaps up in alarm. "I was talking in my sleep?"

He nods, slowly. "Most of it wasn't really coherent… lots of 'don't's' and 'stops' and… and it sounded like you were in pain. But that was all."

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. This is too hard. I kiss him, desperately, and he returns the kiss, but breaks it when he senses my intent to deepen it.

"Sara… you can't just change the subject. Please… tell me what's going on."

I shake my head. "Ryan was an older boy who took care of me, when I first started in the foster homes, and he got hurt, because of me." I kiss him again, pushing my body hard against him, hoping that will end our discussion. All I want to do is lose myself, and the visions of my dream that keep replaying in my head, in his soft embrace and his gentle caresses. I want him to make love to me, exhaust me, so that I can sleep through the rest of the night peacefully and not think about it anymore.

For some reason, he doesn't want to give me what I need. He pulls away again, breathless but determined. "Sara…" he warns, but I can feel how much he wants me, pressing against my thigh. I realize it isn't his body that's holding him back, it's his mind. He feels like, if we can sort through some of my issues, if I'll talk to him, that I'll finally be able to tell him I love him.

"Please, just tell me what happened to you? What was in your nightmare?"

And somehow, when I'm no longer protected from my past by my refusal to say those words, when I'm vulnerable as all hell now anyway… it doesn't seem so hard anymore.

"Michael… I… I love you." He eyes lock on mine, and he looks shocked… happy… hopeful. I take advantage, stealing his lips again and letting my hands roam over his body. "Please… just… just help me forget? Let me lose myself in you."

And that's all it takes—the rest of the night is spent in blissful oblivion and deep, contented sleep.

…He thinks he fixed my problem. What he doesn't realize is that I can say it now because he forced me to be vulnerable, whether I said it or not. He hasn't made it so that I'll accept vulnerability, or allow it… he hasn't made me unafraid enough to trust.

I just stop sleeping over, or letting him stay the night, unless we make love. And if we do, I no longer allow quickies or even just a normal stretch of lovemaking… I refuse to stop until we've spent at least two hours exhausting each other, because then I know I'll be too tired to dream. He doesn't seem to mind at first, but he isn't stupid. He starts to ask questions again, even without the nightmares to wake him up… he starts looking for dark circles under my eyes, and I realize that every word and movement is now being analyzed with quick flickers of his eyes.

It hurts worse than Tyler, because Michael doesn't deserve it, and I hate myself more than I can possibly say for hurting him. He begs to know why I'm ending it—why I had finally told him I loved him if I didn't want to be with him.

"I do love you." I say, sadly, looking down. I can't explain the why, and I just hope that he believes me.

I spent my next birthday alone.


	21. March 1992

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Please review, they make me smile!

* * *

Chapter 20: March 1992

Rebecca and I had not slept together, although there was a lot of sexual tension at dinner. She was doing really well—she was regularly employed in a theatre group at home, in Chicago, so that if she wasn't acting in a play, she was still employed by a group of four theatres and she would help wherever help was needed. It made for a steady income, allowed her to move out of her mom's house, and meant that she never had to be far from what she loved. I was happy for her.

I told her about what we were working towards, in Vegas, and how much the lab had been improving, and she smiled brightly.

"What?"

"Oh, just you and your bugs again. But it's good. It's good that you have something you care about that much. You deserve to be happy."

I think that statement was the reason I didn't ask her home with me that night.

I did love the lab more than her. I was willing to give my whole life to the lab—but I had never been prepared to do that for her, even if she had been the most meaningful relationship I'd had in 35 years.

Seeing her dwindled my desire to actively date, but by the following January I was willing to let a guy from day shift set me up with his wife's friend. Jim had already offered to set me up a few times, but I knew Jim better, and I anticipated working with him for a long time. I didn't want things to go badly and have him upset, or things to go well and then, if we eventually broke up, put him in an awkward position. It was better to avoid it.

But Tom, from day shift, was planning to relocate to Arizona in under a year—his mother wasn't doing too well, and both he and his wife had a lot of family there, so it made sense. Worst case scenario, any conflict was minimal, and it had an expiration date. I'm definitely not a confrontational person by choice—the rare instances in my life that I've had to, it's been after considerable pushing on the part of the confronted.

So I started dating Karen, near the end of January. She was a business woman, and we'd both spent most of our adult lives married to our jobs, so she understood when an emergency call came during dinner on my night off, just like I understood if she had to break a lunch date in order to meet a deadline. Although we were a good match, in that regard, it meant that neither of us were too demanding of the others' time, and so we saw each other once or twice a week, if we were lucky.

As such, the relationship moved slowly—there was an easy attraction between us, certainly, but not a burning passion. And it was nice to have some companionship. By March, it was understood that we were exclusive, although I doubt either of us was seeing anyone else anyway—we didn't have time for more than one other person in our lives. By some miracle, I got a Saturday night off when a case broke earlier than expected, and I called her to see if she was free. I cooked dinner for her, at my townhouse, and we watched My Fair Lady, with Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn.

One would assume that after two adults had dated for well over a month, and they share a romantic evening curled up on the couch, that sex is likely to follow. Though we kissed a little, and both seemed to enjoy it, neither of us seemed all that interested in progressing the evening. We had wine and dessert, after the movie, and I drove her home, kissing her at her door.

I knew it then, though we wouldn't decide to end our still unconsummated relationship until the following May, that nothing would come of us. We both liked having a companion who understood our devotion to our jobs, but there just wasn't any passion. I had never realized just how important passion was, in a relationship, until I felt what it was like without it. And so I changed my mind, a little, about what I was looking for.

I didn't just want a relationship or a companion, someone to spend time with when I wasn't at work so I didn't have to be alone—I had gotten good at being alone, and I wanted someone to make me feel alive, and desirous, and wanted myself… and I had proven that I didn't need a woman to satisfy me. My work satisfied me. So I could wait, as long as it took.

* * *

Slacking

Having ended things with Michael, the extent to which I'd neglected my schooling became glaringly apparent. I was in my fifth year at Harvard, and nearing the end of both my psychics and chemistry majors. Psychics would be finished in May, and chem I could finish during the summer. I hadn't even thought about grad school. And I hadn't specialized, at all. I figured there was time for that, in grad school, but now it was upon me, and I didn't know what I wanted to do.

And so, with the extra time I had acquired, I buried myself in research about career fields with my majors and the best grad schools for my majors and started my applications early. My GPA was 3.975, so I only applied to the best schools in the country, confident that I would get accepted to most of them, and determining that I would make my decision after the fact.

Despite my renewed devotion to school and my future, I had a lot of empty time to fill without Michael. I loaded up my class schedule, adding literature classes, because I knew I was going to miss discussing books, now that he was gone. It might, in the end, push my chemistry major to the back burner, but I was fine with that. I no longer cared about being "ahead of the curve," I just wanted to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and start living it. I had been so distracted, with Michael, and I had lost all perspective. My past still haunted me, so much that I couldn't stay in relationship I'd been happy in, but in that happiness, I had lost the driving force my past had given me.

I just couldn't win. But I would press on. I had spent my life working up to this point, after all.

And by March, with spring finals fast approaching, I felt like I was back on track. Kelly teased me that I had been more fun when I was getting laid all the time, but I felt good about myself again. This was the Sara I knew—dedicated, driven, successful. I was smart, even if I didn't have anything else going for me, and I kept that as a talisman within me, whenever the nightmares came and I had no one to exhaust me or chase them away.


	22. March 1993

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Please review this chapter in particular, because I wasn't sure how well I did Sara's part... I think the feeling is right, but the action worries me. I re-read it about ten times before posting so...

* * *

Chapter 21: March 1993

Jack Murphy

A year passed almost without my knowing it. I had a few dates, a few lovers, but nothing noteworthy. They passed the time for me, and I suspect I did the same for them. The lab had moved up in rankings—we were one of the top one hundred labs in the country, and it was only getting better. Ecklie had moved to day shift, and I rarely saw him. Amber turned ten in a month, and I was planning a week-long trip to see her in April. Mark had come and gone, and I was feeling good about that. Not that I wanted Laura to be sad, but it reassured me that I was the only real father figure in Amber's life. She called me 'dad' now, instead of daddy, and called me about once a week to let me know about her life, her friends, school. She was so smart, and I beamed with pride at the beautiful little girl she had grown into, not choosing to consider how small a role I had really played.

I had been to see her half a dozen times since Laura had gotten married, but they'd never come to Vegas. I was still working to convince them on that one…

Laura was dating a new guy, who sounded a little shady. She wasn't really sure what his job was, even after they'd dated for a month, and she hadn't been inside his home after two months. When Amber told me he spent the night sometimes, I worried. I told her that, on nights when 'Jack' stayed over, she should stay awake after Mommy tucked her in and said goodnight, and go lock her bedroom door. I told her to keep a cordless phone in her room at all times, and went over how to call 911 and what times such a thing would be appropriate, like if Mommy was screaming, or if Jack was trying to get into her room and he sounded scary or angry.

I told her that if she ever wasn't sure, or if she was scared even if he hadn't done anything, she should call me—I would always answer for her. I stressed over it chaotically, wondering what Laura had been thinking in the first place. But she had seemed strange in the last several phone calls—like she was detached, depressed. She didn't seem to know that Amber had a science fair coming up. I mailed Amber the ingredients for a volcano, and stayed on the phone with her while she built it. I would have preferred she do Argentinean Fire Ants—they _always_ beat volcanoes—but Laura would probably have thrown them out, if she found them. Even if they were for the science fair.

If I had had any legal claim on Amber, I would have flown to Boston and taken her back to Vegas with me in a heartbeat. They could come after me, take me to court; I wasn't going to risk her safety. But that was foolishness. I didn't have a leg to stand on—what good was I to Amber if she couldn't even call me, because I was in prison for kidnapping?

But when Laura let his last name slip out, I scrambled for a piece of paper and scribbled it down, urgently. I checked his criminal record at work, discreetly, of course—several misdemeanors, one felony…for cocaine possession. He'd done a few years in jail. He had several reports of domestic violence that had later been rescinded. My heart ached.

But I would be there in a month, and I could see how things really were. Maybe I could set the man straight—make sure he understood that to lay a hand on either Laura or Amber was signing his own death warrant. Anything to make me feel more secure about their living situation.

I wanted to send Amber pepper spray, but I was afraid she'd hurt herself playing with it. It scared me, and I toyed with my indecision.

That little girl was the most important thing in my whole world, and I feel useless and helpless and inadequate, because I couldn't protect her.

* * *

Ken Fuller

I got lazy, the summer of 1992, and decided I wasn't going to take the last class I needed for my chem. major in summer school. I had been accepted to grad school at Harvard, for psychics, and it just felt like an unnecessary extra. In the future, if I decided I wanted the degree, all I had to do was take a three credit class. I was sure I could handle that. I thought that maybe I'd like to teach psychics, in high school or to undergraduates. I had a home in Boston, and there were more colleges here than I could count. I could probably get hired at one of them, easily.

Despite all this, I still had extra time on my hands, especially without my literature classes. I started hanging out with some of the girls Kelly was friends with, and found that we got along really well. And several of them were chemistry majors, which surprised me. The more we talked, the more they realized how many classes we'd shared together and never spoken in—they started inviting Kelly and I to hang out with people in the department— parties and going out to eat and days spent doing nothing.

Ken Fuller was getting his masters in Chemistry, and he was an Organic Chemistry T.A. for undergraduates. He was quite the stud among the people I'd started to hang out with—besides being crazy gifted in Chemistry, he had been a big football player his last year as an undergrad, and had even been recruited—the NFL had wanted to draft him, but he said football was a hobby. He was a scientist.

He was an _arrogant scientist_. He was still muscled from his days as a starter, and was dashingly handsome in an obvious way—he could have been on magazine covers. Even being in the science department, he was a BMoC—Big man on Campus—which seemed to mean he was the only ideal mate available for any of the girls I now hung out with. I wasn't so stirred.

We were physically attracted to each other—any proximity between us was heat-filled and tense. But I found him cocky and hard to be around for any period of time. He would make bold proclamations about his subject of expertise—whether it be new developments, old theories, or just philosophical speculation on the chemical nature of the world in which we lived. I always argued; he was an idiot. And he didn't like that I could hold my own in an argument against him—that I didn't back down, and that I knew as much as he did, sometimes more. I had hardly had a life for a year before I entered the group—any newly published discoveries in either chemistry or psychics I had committed to memory. I read when I can't sleep, and the nightmares had been frequent.

I don't think he liked that I wasn't interested in him either. He had hit on me, a few times, and though we both knew there was a basic, real sexual connection between us, I was repelled by him in any way other than physically. I spurned his advances. He was plain with me.

"Look, you don't really like me, and I don't really like you. I get it." His hazel eyes burned into mine, and I feel their heat trailing down my spine. "But from the moment we met, we've wanted each other. I'm not saying I want a relationship, I'm saying that… that with as much tension as there is, and as angry as we make each other… sex between us could be phenomenal." I roll my eyes, though I feel the pressure building below my belly button. He grins. "Just think about it."

I did. All the fucking time. I found my nightmares replaced by sex dreams—angry, rough, sex dreams… but _god_ they were hot.

And then Kelly made the suggestion that we do Spring Break in Miami.

I had never done a Spring Break, and she was moving from Boston at the end of this year. It'd be our last year together—our last chance to really party. I felt like maybe I hadn't done enough of that, for a college student. So we talked to the group, made the arrangements, and I was excited. I'd never been _really_ drunk in my life, and I felt like it would be a good parting present for Kelly—she was always complaining that I didn't keep up with her. Chances were that I probably still wouldn't keep up, but I was willing to let myself get tipsy. It would be fun.

Somehow, I ended up between Kelly and Ken on the plane. The seats were small, and Ken kept brushing his thigh against mine and claiming it was an accident. It was irritating, but I would have been able to ignore it if it hadn't been sending tingles through my body every time it happened.

Tyler's body had been average for a teenage boy—he wasn't super muscular, but he had a slender frame and broad shoulders. Michael had had muscles, impressive muscles, but nothing like Ken—Ken looked every inch the football player he had recently been—and I found myself wondering what it would feel like, to be pressed under that phenomenal body.

He seemed to notice my responses to him—the flush in my cheeks, the trembling in my hands, my dry mouth—I had to keep swallowing and licking my lips. I got up to go to the bathroom, to get away from him, to calm myself down. After washing my hands, I was irritated to hear a gentle knocking on the door. "One minute." I called through the door, taking a deep breath and then sliding the handle open. It was Ken, and he did not even give me a moment to speak—he pushed his way inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him, with burning eyes.

I was surprised, about to get mad at him, yell at him to get out, or to let me leave, when he grabbed my hips and pulled me hard against him, his lips capturing my ear lobe, his hips grinding against me. And all the build-up, all the tension between us, ripped through my body and I lost all my conviction to say no. It took only seconds to slide my jeans down, off my body, and he kept his on, just pushed down around his knees. I pushed myself up on the counter, and he pushed my underwear aside, pushing into me—I was already ridiculously ready for him.

The pressure, how he filled me—it was amazing, even if it was only because I hadn't been with a man for a year and a half. And I was still angry with him for barging in, and I rocked against him, taking out that anger. He groaned hard against me and lifted my shirt, so he could bury his face in my chest while his hands rocked me hard against him. It was rough… and angry… but after the initial penetration, it went downhill.

He wasn't very good at this. His rhythm was unsteady, and did very little for me, which he didn't seem to mind. His mouth on my breasts was not sensual or even roughly arousing—he didn't play with the nipples—he didn't give a thought to my pleasure at all. After a moment of biting, he just left his face buried there, rocking me hard against him in his irregular thrusts. I was trying to stop thinking so much—to get into it—but I couldn't build myself anywhere close to an orgasm, and he came inside me without a thought to how close I might be. I was more relieved than anything, though disappointment might have been second on that list.

He slid out of me, without a word, slipping the condom off and flushing it in the toilet, pulled his pants back up and left. Without a word. I felt disgusting—I had thought that I was attracted to him, physically, at least, but now just the thought of him was gross. I was unsatisfied and frustrated and _ashamed_ of myself. At least he'd used a condom. Ugh.

I cleaned myself up, and went back to the seat. He kept giving me looks, like he thought we were going to share some secret smile about our tryst. I rolled my eyes at him and turned to Kelly, choosing not to speak to him for the rest of the flight.

We had rented a condo for the week—it was expensive, but everyone had pitched it. It meant that there would be a lot of bed-sharing and sleeping on the floor and the couches, but it was a gorgeous place—we had a private pool and walk-down access to the beach. Kelly and I went grocery shopping, with a 50 from each of the 10 other people who had come, and some of the guys had gone to pick up the alcohol, with the other 50 from each of us 12.

It would have been a lot of fun, except for Ken. After a couple of beers, he was becoming crude.

"Hey, Sara, why don't you come sit on my lap, baby?" He asked, when Kelly and I entered the living room after putting away the groceries. I raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, no thanks." I twisted open my beer and took a drink, but choked on it as his next words slipped out.

"You must still be exhausted from the plane."

Kelly turns and looks at me, and I feel my face turning red—not from everyone knowing I'd had sex on a plane, but that it had been with this asshole. But of course, I play it off, rolling my eyes and taking another drink from my beer.

"Mmm, I would have had to be with a man who knew what he was doing to be exhausted…"

There's a chorus of deep "Ooo's" from the rest of the guys as they turn to look at him. He's angry.

"Fuck you, Sara. You were begging to have me."

My eyes flash, and I lose my temper. It hasn't happened very often since I moved to Boston, so Kelly stares at me in shock as I go off on him.

"_Begging_?! Really, who was the creep who kept trying to grope me in my seat? Who forced his way into _my_ bathroom stall? Yeah, I had sex with you, because I thought—'Shit, he's this buff football star, sex on a plane would be hot, even if he is an arrogant asshole.' But I didn't beg you, I reluctantly accepted your desperate advances, and was _sorely disappointed_. But, since all the women in the world, and especially in this room, seem to think you're god's gift to the vagina, let me just clarify something for you—for the sake of your next victim: It's called the clitoris, and you don't just get to ignore it. And try to keep _some_ sort of rhythm; you're not bobbing for apples or at home with your hand."

He's angry too, and embarrassed, but I can't bring myself to care.

"You're just a fucking prude—you couldn't come if you were with a porn star. It's not my fault that you're sexually repressed and—"

I'm having none of that. "_Really?_ You think so? Because I'm pretty sure I had my first orgasm at the age of 15, not even having sex, at the hands of a virgin. But yeah, call _that_ sexual repression. Maybe if you'd been able to last a whole two minutes, you'd have had a chance… but probably not. …I'll see you guys later."

I storm out of the condo, leaving, I'm sure, a path of destruction in my wake. Kelly runs after me, and we walk down the beach in silence for a while. Then she giggles, and I turn my glaring eyes to her in indignation, but she laughs harder.

"You just told a crowded room that you joined the mile high club with someone you hate… who sucked in bed…" she giggles harder, and spills some of her beer. "Come on, you _have_ to admit that's funny."

And then I'm laughing too, and we fall over on the sand, laughing ourselves silly. She slings an arm over my shoulder. "Forget that asshole. We're on Spring Break! In Miami!" I smile, very, very happy.

By the time we meet up with the rest of our group, we're both fairly tipsy from bumming drinks off different groups of college students all down the beach. We wave—they've built up a bonfire and they're all drinking around it—and throw our clothes we've been carrying (having had swimming suits underneath) into the room we're sharing, before making our way down to the group. Ken is nowhere in sight, so I let myself relax, mixing myself a drink. Someone turns on music, and with our inhibitions rapidly deteriorating, we're up and dancing, grinding against each other in swimming suits, spilling our drinks.

I'm between Kelly and some guy—Travis, maybe—and really feeling good from the alcohol, when it starts feeling not so good. I think I'm going to be sick. I've never, ever drank this much in my life before. I slide out from between them, and their bodies move together, continuing in perfect rhythm to the music pounding out. I move down the beach, until I find an area that's a little secluded. I take deep breaths of the cold, salty air, and away from the heat of the bodies and the fire and the alcohol, I feel better. My stomach settles, and I decide I'll head back as soon as I feel steady. I'm done drinking for the night.

And before I know it, my head is slammed back into the sand, and stars are blooming before my eyes. I struggle back to awareness, trying to understand, when I feel more pain than I remember feeling since I was a child—without knowing how exactly I got there, I'm face down in the sand, and I'm being raped—hard. I scream, and take in a mouthful of the beach and cough, gagging on it, tears streaming down my face. I raise an elbow backwards, and make contact with what is obviously a face—not once, but twice, and then my hands are held by each of his, by my face, and I feel like I'm being ripped apart as I struggle to get away and he grunts in pleasure, above me.

I black out, for a time, and when I wake up I feel him pulling out, getting off of me, and walking away. I tremble, as sobs start racking my body again, and I hurt so much I can hardly move. But I do. I don't know how, but I lift my head, looking around to make sure he's gone. My bikini bottoms are by my head, and I grasp at them desperately, turning over and sliding them over my aching body. I stumble up to my feet, noticing the blood in the sand, and knowing where it's from.

I try to keep myself calm, evaluating the situation. All I want to do is shower, like after my nightmares, but I know enough not to do that. No one will be in the condo—they'll be at the beach. I'm afraid to run into the people I know, because now that I'm not in the moment, the grunts sounded—even felt—familiar, as did the organ inside me and the washboard abs against my back. I make my way back there, giving any partiers a wide berth, and pick up the phone, calling the number for the police office, which is on a magnet on the fridge. I make a mental note to thank the people who rented us the condo for that.

"Miami-Dade Police Department."

"I… I've just been… raped. Where should I go to report it?"

"You come right down here, ma'am, to the department—we'll take your statement. Are you in need of medical care? We can meet you at the hospital, or send an ambulance…?"

I sniffle, wiping my tears away impatiently. "I, uh… I'm not sure. Maybe I'll meet you there. I'm… I'm from out of town. Can… can you give me the address to the nearest hospital?"

I copy it down with shaking fingers, and give my name, and then call myself a cab. Then I move as quickly as I can, despite how sore I am, up to the room Kelly and I share. I dig out a pair of black sweat pants and my favorite Harvard sleep shirt, and pull them over my swimming suit. I don't know how they catch the guys, but I figure that if showering isn't allowed, I should probably keep the same clothes on.

I grab my purse, double-checking that I have all my essentials, and move back downstairs, taking the address and waiting outside for the cab. I give the address, and pay him in silence, moving into the hospital. By the way people turn to stare at me, I figure I'm in pretty bad shape, but I ignore it. I don't know anyone here anyway.

I tell the woman at the desk that I called the police to report a rape, and they were meeting me here, and she immediately sends me to a private room to wait. There's a hospital gown on the bed, but I don't change yet. I'm still not sure if it's okay to take the swimming suit off.

Shortly thereafter, two women walk in and introduce themselves—one is in a uniform, and puts "officer" before her name, the other says she's a CSI. The uniformed woman stands outside the door, while the CSI woman—Carrie—pulls up a seat next to me, her motions slow.

"Sara." I say, after a moment, realizing I haven't introduced myself, but rather just stared since they entered the room. "Sara Sidle."

She nods. "I know, you gave your name to P.D. Are… are you okay, Sara? Do you have any immediate medical concerns? The woman at the desk didn't seem to think so but…"

I tremble. "I, uh… I'm bleeding. I think I must have… torn." My eyes squeeze shut, and I feel my whole body shaking. She nods.

"Okay, Sara. Here's what we're going to do. I'll take your clothes from you, to process, once you've changed into a gown. I'll get a nurse in here to make sure you're okay, and then I'm going to do an SAE kit—it's kind of like your annual appointment, just a little swabbing, a little pressure. Then I'll take pictures of all your wounds and bruises, and look for trace evidence on your body, and in your hair. Okay?"

I nod, liking knowing what's coming, even if I don't understand all of it. She turns to leave, to give me a minute, but I stop her.

"I, uh… I'm… afraid to be alone right now. Maybe… you could stay, and just turn your back?"

"Of course, Sara." She gives me a reassuring smile, and I like the way she says my name. It calms me.

I pull off the shirt and sweat pants, placing them in the separate bags she left sitting on the bed for me, and then slide the now-blood stained swimsuit bottoms off my body and into yet another bag, finally pulling the top off and putting it in the last bag. I tie the gown around me, with difficulty, and then tell her she can turn around. She smiles again.

"I, uh… I wasn't wearing the shirt and pants when… I was just in the swimming suit."

She nods. "Once we've gotten all the evidence from your body, you can tell me everything that happened, okay?"

I nod, and climb into bed, wincing as I'm inspected, squeezing my eyes closed tightly. Carrie does the SAE, and pictures and whatever else of that area of my body first, because I need stitches. A lot of stitches. Once she's done, a doctor comes in to do the stitches while the nurse continues to go over my body, reporting her findings to Carrie—other than the tearing, the bump on my head, and some broken ribs, it sounds like I'm just badly bruised. The doctor and nurse leave, and Carrie looks at me.

"I'll do trace first—after those stitches, you probably want to sit for a while." I nod, and she takes a picture of my head before combing through my hair—there's lots of sand, I'm not sure what else. She scrapes under my fingernails, and meticulously goes over the rest of my body while I sit there, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

She helps me to stand then, and takes pictures of each bruise and scrape and cut. I'm surprised when I see the massive hand-shaped bruising on my wrists—I hadn't realized how hard I'd struggled. Finally, I'm allowed to lie back down, and she sits next to me. I take a deep breath, and tell her everything I can remember, answering her questions and then reliving the airplane bathroom event, and the confrontation in the condo, when she asks if I had any enemies. When I finish, and she's out of questions, I'm exhausted, and I fall asleep, even though I'm not sure they had planned to keep me for any period of time.

The next morning, I call Kelly and ask her to bring me clothing. They release me, and we take another cab to the police department, giving them my Boston address and phone number, telling them I'm going home that day. We go back to the condo, and pack up my things. As we're leaving, I see Ken come down the stairs, into the kitchen. He has a black eye, and a cut lip. Kelly looks at him in alarm.

"What happened to you? You look like somebody elbowed you in the face."

His eyes lock on mine, and I fight the shaking in my body. "I dunno… must have fallen down while I was drunk last night."

She nods, and we leave in a hurry. She drives me to the airport, walks me to security, and hugs me.

"Are you sure you'll be okay, Sara? Maybe I should go back with you…"

I shake my head. "You can't afford to switch your flight, Kel. It's fine. I'll see you in a week." And I walked away, getting on the plane and finally, finally, breathing a sigh of relief.


	23. April 1993

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Just a side note, I know that the Witness Protection Program isn't really under the FBI, and that they're both under the Department of Justice... however, I decided to oversimplify, for the purposes of this story. So, just fair warning, this is where that whole 'willing suspense of disbelief' thing comes in. :)

Please review! It means sooo much to me when you do!

* * *

Chapter 22: April 1993

They weren't there. I flew to Boston, an entire suitcase full of presents, for Amber's tenth birthday, and the house was empty, unlocked. The main living areas looked like they'd been ransacked—Amber's room was empty, all clothes gone, all toys gone.

I went back out to my rental car, frantic, thinking I should call the police. Instead, I drove to Laura's aunt's house. It's empty too—abandoned. Then I go to the police, explaining, filing a missing person's report, telling them everything I know about 'Jack Murphy,' which admittedly was not much. They told me they'd call me, they were going to look into the case. I couldn't believe how frustrating it was to be on the other side—to have to leave, and wait, and worry.

I wasn't going to do that, because my intuition was telling me that this was off. If they'd left in a hurry, only some of Amber's clothes would be missing. If they'd moved at a leisurely pace, even on the off chance they hadn't wanted to keep in touch with me, they would have taken the living and dining room furniture. And both families wouldn't have moved. For some reason, I felt like this had to do with Jack Murphy—he must have done something, gotten in too deep with his drug suppliers, and either Laura and Amber were in the Witness Protection Program, or he'd cared enough to tell them to move when he knew trouble was coming. Either way, it was his fault.

I called Jim Brass.

"Brass."

"Hey, Jim, it's Gil, I, uh… Do you have a minute?"

"Yeah, nothing too pressing at the moment… what do you need?"

"I, uh… I need a favor."

"Okay…?" he asked, not agreeing yet, but waiting to see what I would request.

"Do you still have that contact at the FBI?"

"Yes…"

"…So, uh, you don't know this about me, but, um… when I lived in Minnesota, I had a family."

"Okay." He responds, probably only because I paused. He's letting me do the talking.

"I wasn't married to her, but we had a son, and she had a little girl from a previous marriage. Laura and Amber Michaels, write that down, Jim."

I can hear him pull paper across his desk, so I continue.

"My son died, of SIDS, and almost a year later, Laura and Amber moved to Boston, to get away from all that, and I moved to L.A. But… Amber is like my own daughter, it doesn't matter that she isn't really mine. Do you understand that?"

His voice is gruff when he answers, like he's emotional, and I don't understand it, but in the moment I don't have the time to understand it. "Yeah, Gil… I understand that."

"I'm here in Boston, for her birthday… and they're gone. Just gone. All the living room furniture, the dinner table… it's all there, and the house looks ransacked, but all their clothing is gone, all of Amber's toys and books… Laura was dating a guy, Jack Murphy, who had gone to prison for cocaine possession. I went to Laura's aunt's home, to look for them, see if they knew anything… it was deserted too. It… It just _feels_ like witness protection. I… Jim, I know your guy can't tell me where they are, or their new names, or anything like that… but if I could just know that they're alive, and okay, and… and safe. _I need to know that she's safe._"

There's a long silence on the phone, and I hear his chair squeak as he shifts in it. "Let me give him a call, Gil. I'll see what I can do…"

"Thank you, Jim. You… you have no idea. Thank you."

"Of course. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

The line goes dead, and I go to the college restaurant, that Laura had once taken us too, because I have nowhere to be, and because it makes me think of Amber. I'm seated in a quiet area of the restaurant—perhaps the hostess senses my state of mind—away from most of the college students. There's only one other person in the entire section—a good twenty feet from me—a young girl, brunette, who flinches any time a waiter walks past her. She's bent over a stack of forms, writing meticulously, but I feel her sadness from here—perhaps because I'm so in tune with despair right now.

I order coffee, and a burger with fries—I'm not hungry, but it will keep my hands busy. I need to occupy myself until I receive the call. While I wait for my food, I watch the young girl out of the side of my eyes. I don't know whether I can't see her features because she is bent over her work so studiously, or whether it is simply that the enormity of her grief obscures all else, but all I see of her is the brown locks and the sorrow. I wonder if I look that way—whether my entire frame exudes anguish, as hers does.

The burger comes, and I eat without tasting, forcing myself to take small bites, and chew meticulously. It's well over an hour by the time I finish my plate, my phone resting, silent, in front of me. The waitress takes it, asking after dessert, but I feel sick after having eating so much when I didn't feel hungry, and so I just request the check. She walks away, and my phone rings.

_Good God, it's ringing._ With trembling hands, I lift it, and answer shakily.

"Jim?"

"Hey, I talked to my guy."

My heart is clenched tightly, and I'm not breathing. I wait, and he continues.

"Sounds like they are in the program, your instincts were right. They're alive, and safe. He couldn't tell me anything else about them, but it does sound like it's the boyfriend they're worried about. The woman, Laura, agreed to testify against him…" He chuckles softly. "Apparently it's in the file that the little girl, Amber… she told the program reps that her daddy made bad people go to jail, and he was going to send Jack to jail. They wrote it down, intending to see if there was a father figure they needed to protect, but they couldn't find a record of one. …Do you feel like you need any protection, Gil?"

Tears are streaming down my face. They're alive, they're safe, and my baby knows who her daddy is… she knows that I would do anything to protect her. Even if I can't see her, for her birthday, it's enough. I shake myself, wiping at the tears, forcing myself to respond.

"No… no, uh, I don't need any protection. I don't think he ever knew much about me. Listen, Jim, can… can I ask another favor?"

"I can't help you talk to them, Gil."

"No, I know… but… maybe you could just send a message or talk to the FBI? I, uh… I've been sending money, for her college fund. If Laura can't keep up with it, maybe they could ask her to release it to me, so I can keep adding to it. It would stay in Amber's name…"

He sighs. "I can talk to my guy, Gil, but I can't promise anything."

"No, I know… I know… uh, and… have them tell her that her daddy loves her, too. If you can." I swallow hard. "Thanks, Jim."

He says something, but I don't know what. I hang up, as the check arrives, and I've never felt more relieved in my whole life. I _could not_ lose another baby. I didn't have it in me.

I pay in cash, but I use the pen in the little black folder to scrawl on a clean napkin, for my silent partner in grief. I make sure to walk by her table on my way out, and am surprised that she doesn't flinch as I set the napkin on the table and leave. Hopefully, her pain will be alleviated as quickly as mine.

* * *

Making Plans

When I arrived home, I did something very selfish—I called Michael. It had been a year and a half since we'd broken up, and I worried that he had moved on. I didn't know anyone else in town I could trust, and I couldn't be alone. Luckily, it was spring break for him too, and so he answered, despite the fact that I'd called him a little after noon.

"Hello?" I'd promised myself I wouldn't cry, but tears sprang into my eyes at the sound of his voice.

"…Michael?"

"Sara?" He was alarmed, scared, and I sniffled, trying to regain control. "Sara, honey, what's wrong? Talk to me…"

Suddenly my face was covered in tears, and I didn't know when they had fallen nor did I remember feeling them fall. "I… I don't know if… if you hate me or… or if you're with someone… but… I really need somebody I can trust, right now…"

He inhales deeply. "I could never hate you, Sara. I'll… I'll be there in five minutes? You…" he swallows, like he's sad he has to ask. "You still live in the same apartment?"

"Yeah…"

"Five minutes." He promises, and the line disconnects.

I don't answer when he knocks, because I can't force myself to stand—I'm crumpled on the floor, letting myself go for the first time since it happened. Luckily, he lets himself in, and I feel his arms around me. He holds me against his shoulder, until I can stop crying, and then pulls back slowly.

"Sara, honey, what is it?" He draws in a sharp breath when he sees my face. "What… happened to you? Sara, who did this to you?!"

And then I'm sobbing again, buried in his shoulder. He rocks me gently, and rubs my back, and soothes me. And then he leads me into the bedroom, and lays us down in my bed and holds me close, running his fingers through my hair. It's the most natural thing in the world, and I curl into him, feeling safe for the first time in so long. When we've laid there for nearly an hour, just holding each other, his gentle fingers in my hair, I speak.

"I went to… Miami… with Kelly, for… spring break." I can tell he's listening closely, because he tenses, and his fingers pause in my hair, before continuing their trek. "I… I was a little drunk… a little tipsy, not drunk… and, uh, I thought I was going to be sick, so I went away from the group, to get some cool air…" I tremble, but he holds me tightly, and I still. "I was pushed back, into the sand and… turned over. He… held my hands down, when I tried to fight back, and…" a sob escapes my lips. "It… _hurt_ so bad." And then I'm lost in sobs again, and he's rocking me gently.

Hours later, he untangles himself, and goes out to the kitchen and heats me up soup. I'm not sick, but I appreciate the thought. We both eat a bowl in bed, in a comfortable silence. I break it when I set my empty bowl aside, on a nightstand.

"Thank you, for… coming. I… I didn't know who else to call, and… and I know you didn't have to."

His eyes are soft as they watch me. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Sara. You know that. You know you can always call me. In twenty years, if _you_ call me, Sara, I'll still come."

I feel tears in my eyes, and I kiss him softly—impulsively. I pull back when he doesn't return the kiss, regretful, thinking he's over me, but he sees the look in my eyes and pulls me gently back, brushing his lips softly against mine.

"I'm just… I'm afraid to touch you, that way… I know what you just went through…"

I nod, drawing in a deep breath. I understand, but I want him to remove the memory of my attacker. I want my body to know the feel of loving hands again, instead of all the pain. "You can touch me, Michael. Please… touch me."

His eyes shine, and then he's sitting me up, pulling off my shirt gently, and drawing in a hissing breath as he sees the newly revealed bruises and cuts, and the wrappings around my ribs. Still, the way his eyes worship my body, I feel safer than ever, and I reach behind myself to unclasp my bra and pull it from my body. He dips his head, softly kissing each and every exposed mark, and letting his fingers trail over them, gently, as if his touch can erase my assailant's, and heal the pain. It's soothing, in the simplest of ways, and I let my eyes close to his touch.

When he's finished, he slowly slides my sweat pants down, and then gently removes my underwear. He kisses his way up my legs, stopping at each bruise, though they're fewer, here, and I draw in a shuddering breath as he reaches the apex and I slowly spread my legs, tears falling again.

His head falls to the mattress between my legs, and he groans softly. "God, Sara…" he's afraid to touch the stitches, and slides up to me instead, wrapping his arms around me. "I'm… I'm so sorry this happened to you. I can't believe anyone would touch you this way. You… you deserve so much better."

I slowly slide his clothing off, without speaking—I just need to feel his skin against mine—and then curl into him, and we sleep.

He stays with me, that whole week, and we both go back to school on Monday, but we're unofficially back together again, even though I've told him that I have to move… that I think I know who it is, and I can't stay in Boston anymore. Carrie, the CSI, called me personally during the week, to tell me that they weren't able to get any DNA from any of the evidence they collected. I cried, again, and she told me she was really sorry that they hadn't been able to prove anything. The person I had told her about—the person I suspected—his hands were the same size as the bruises on my wrists, but so were the hands of two other men in the condo—it wasn't enough, alone, to convict him. I thanked her, and hung up, and went and sat in the burning shower.

Michael had gone to pick up some groceries, and that's where he found me. He slipped his clothes off and sat behind me, holding me as the water cascaded over us and I cried. I told him, through sobs, that they couldn't prove it was him. But I knew. I knew it with certainty.

After that day was when I started planning.

I applied to transfer to all the grad schools I had been accepted to the year before, and then started talking to my professors and advisors about studying forensics and how my areas of expertise would fit into that. Carrie had done so much for me—put me so at ease—during the ordeal, and I felt like that was something I wanted to do. Not law enforcement, but… she'd said DNA analysis and trace evidence and… and that was science, right? I could easily do that. And I could be for others what she had been for me.

I went to the restaurant in which I'd spent my birthday with Michael and Kelly, when I turned nineteen, and sat alone in a booth, filling out application after application and writing out essay after essay, with nothing for fuel but black coffee and fear. A few hours in, a man who seemed as sad as me came in, was seated in my secluded section, and we each sat, isolated in our grief for over an hour. He got a phone call, just before he left, and it seemed to solve his problems. Suddenly I felt very alone—I hadn't known how much his mutual sorrow had comforted me until he was leaving.

As he passed my table, he set a napkin on the edge of the table, without pausing. I remember looking up, and slowly setting my pen down, and turning to see that he was gone, before picking up the napkin curiously. In a scrawl that would have been beautiful, if it hadn't been on a napkin and somewhat messy because of it, there was a quotation.

"_Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it."_

_-Victor Hugo_

_Thank you for sharing in my grief. …It will get better._

I smile, softly, and feel a newfound strength that seeps deep into my very bones.

I chose Berkeley, because they had one of the best forensics programs in the country, and because California felt familiar and safe. By the time finals had finished at the end of April, I had given notice on my apartment and flown out to Berkeley to find an apartment. I rented a U-haul truck, and drove across the country, by myself, missing Michael more with every mile, but the strength stayed in my bones. I was putting it all behind me, I had finally decided on a career path, and I would soon be giving justice to people like myself. I would be finding the minute evidence that would have had Ken Fuller in a jail cell, rather than strutting around campus next year. I might not have any recourse for the wrongs against my person, but I would protect other women from this kind of injustice.


	24. January 1994

Disclaimer: They're not mine... but I'll let CBS have them, because they want to keep Jorja! :)

A/N: These next two are short, not very eventful, and I have Chapter 25 ready, but 25 and 26 I just added, before they meet in 27... and I'm not done with 26, completely... and I want to post 27 on it's own... for obvious reasons. So, hopefully over the weekend I'll have some more interesting chapters up...

Thanks for the reviews, I _love_ to read them!

* * *

Chapter 23: January 1994

Enough. Again.

I returned home to Vegas, and though I thought I had been devoted to the lab before this, I had been poorly disillusioned. I only took time off for seminars—I pulled doubles whenever it was even remotely necessary, I picked up shifts for others in my team and even on day shift, and I never called in sick. I was more devoted to my job than I'd ever been, because I didn't have anything else. So when I turned 37, I hadn't even realized it until the day was almost over.

Jim had been able to talk his guy at the FBI into granting me access to the account so that I could add money, or move it, if need be, under the condition that it be kept in Amber's name and that the money that was in it when they'd passed it into my control was never removed for any reason. I was more than happy to oblige, and, having even less of a life than I'd had before, put most of my paycheck into it for her. It was the only way I could be a father, right now, and so I gave as much as I could, even losing a little weight because groceries were thin the last few days before payday, but I didn't want to have any less for her that month.

It wasn't like I wasn't eating—I was just skipping a meal and a half, two days at a time, every two weeks. Not so bad.

It was what I had to do, to keep myself going, and truth be told, it was good for the lab, even if it wasn't necessarily good for me. We had been in the top 50 labs in the country this past year, and we were only improving. And for maybe the thousandth time in my life, I repeated the mantra to myself—enough. I had enough in my life to keep me going, keep me sane, keep me alive. Enough. Just enough.

* * *

Berkeley

I was a different person, at Berkeley, than I had been in Boston. I became… more of a split, between Tomales Bay Sara and Boston Sara. I went back to being a pseudo-extrovert, flirting and looking tough as a defense mechanism, but I was still my quiet, reserved self when I wasn't around people I didn't know.

That was rare, however. I didn't let anyone get close to me. I couldn't. I was scared.

At the very least, I was now close enough to do holidays with Jim and Marlene. They had seemed extremely excited by my renewed proximity, which reassured me… made me feel good. Maybe they would have kept me, all the time… wanted me. Maybe.

I found forensics to be the single most intriguing and fulfilling thing I'd ever been a part of in my whole life. It was science applied—the most complicated and multi-faceted puzzle, where logic always mattered more than anything else. It allowed me an escape, and I devoured my textbooks like they were oxygen. I subscribed to forensics magazines, I bought a police scanner, I did supplementary research in my spare time.

I had decided to keep up with getting my masters in psychics, which I thought was a smart idea, even if I now felt like the classes I had loved were boring and lifeless in comparison to my forensics classes.

And that was when I realized that I could be happy with just a career.

I had always wanted one, of course… I'd wanted to support myself, and have my own dreams… but those dreams had always included someone tall, dark, and wonderful… Now I knew, I could marry my job, and be content.


	25. Fall 1995

Disclaimer: I do not own.

* * *

Chapter 24: Fall 1995

Catherine Willows

Two years passed like two days—my life was simple. I worked, and I worked with a devotion and a feverish hunger, and we were in the top twenty labs in the country. I spent any free time, any days off, occupied in my home. I cleaned as much as was absolutely necessary, and I kept up with baseball. I read my forensic journals, I had lots of insects for pets, and I meticulously monitored Amber's college fund, though I still hadn't had a word from her. She would be twelve, and beautiful, and I could not believe I wasn't there to beat the boys off with a stick and tell her how attractive her mind could be—how she really deserved to be respected and cherished for who she was.

In truth, I never tired of thinking of her beauty, but it worried me—I wanted her to be seen for all the other amazing things about her. I wanted everyone she met to know how she hadn't wanted to kill spiders, as a four year old, even though she thought they were icky and scary, because she was too kind-hearted. I wanted them to know how she was so intuitive, and gentle, and smart, and loving, and funny, and sweet. She was _too_ beautiful—I was afraid that it would obscure all the other wonderful things about her, and that if I wasn't there to remind her, she might not realize those things about herself, either.

And then one day, I found a friend at the lab, other than Jim. Well, as much a friend as _I_ can have… but it was surprising. I hadn't even had a guy or two I could grab a beer with in a long time. I appreciated the connection, even if to her it seemed like there was hardly one at all. Her name was Catherine Willows, and she challenged me. She was smart, and beautiful, and vivacious. She was many other things, but I liked to think about the good, rather than the bad, when it came to Catherine.

I was skeptical, when Jim approached me with her application. It wasn't officially my job, but he valued my opinion, and we sat and discussed it. She had a degree in Medical Technology from UNLV, and was applying to work in the lab. Her previous job references were as a stripper. Her recommendation letters were outstanding. We called her for an interview. She blew us away.

And for some reason, we clicked.

_Still_, nearing middle-age, having no wife, no children, and a disastrously beautiful woman around you, day in and out, and honestly feeling no attraction to her, despite how _goddamned_ hot she is…

It spurs on a mid-life crisis if you ever saw one.

I bought a Mercedes.

It made me feel good.

....I hadn't indulged in myself in years…

Catherine teased me about it, but that was okay.

* * *

I can't believe I'm a lab rat.

So I had committed myself to four years of grad school, without even being in sight of a PhD. and I was running out of excess aid. But, I did have a degree from Harvard to my name, so I began to apply in the area to all the forensics-related jobs. San Francisco's crime lab needed some extra help, and I was more than qualified. I was hired on the spot.

But I was a lab rat, watching the CSIs do everything that I wanted to do.

Still, it was the first time in the two years since I'd moved from Boston that I could say I had friends. I was somewhat brilliant when it came to trace, not to build myself up too much, and I always talked over the cases with the CSIs, trying gain insight—to learn from them but also to see how I fared against them, to see if I could do what they were doing, to make sure I wasn't just kidding myself.

I wasn't.

I made connections the others didn't—I had an intuition they lacked. And I understood the victims better than they did… especially in tough cases, like rape, or domestic violence… I really felt like my past was, in a weird, twisted, way, becoming an asset to me. I didn't look at the pictures they brought in, unless necessary, and by being clinical about the whole thing, I found that I wasn't even remotely upset by those crimes. I just felt a burning desire to give the victims justice. Maybe I was finally advancing, moving past what had happened to me.

The nightmares had come back though—as soon as I'd left Boston. My nightmares always come in varying degrees of severity, usually depending on the amount of trauma involved. The easiest were just like normal dreams—I might let out the stray whimper, roll around in the sheets more than normal.

They got worse from there.

I would toss and turn so violently that it would wake me up, and I would mutter and moan and shudder. Or I would completely tear the sheets from the bed from my thrashing, and I would scream out—sometimes just screams, often times words… things in reaction to dreams, or things that I'd said as a seven year old, eight year old, twelve year old…

The worst was when I actually sat up in bed, semi-aware of my surroundings—I had punched one of my foster mother's, as a twelve year old, because she'd been trying to wake me up to calm me down after I'd dreamt of the night my father died. I left that foster home the next day—they said that I needed more help than they could give me—which was sad, because they were one of about four really good families, among a little over 20.

I'd been with Michael, since the rape, back in Boston, but I was too afraid to be intimate with anyone else. Strange—I'd finally allowed myself to trust him, as I was leaving.

There were one or two guys I met, at work, who I would have gone out with, before… but now I flirted shamelessly, but turned down their advances. If you acted confident, nobody would guess how much you were hiding… how much you were afraid of. In that regard, however, the nightmares weren't so bad. I didn't have to share them with anyone, or explain myself, or endure the concern and fear in anyone's eyes…

And my supervisor at the lab was impressed with me, so, despite my nightly hauntings, the most important aspects of my life were successful—I was doing great in school, and at work. He told me that I should apply to be a CSI level 1, when I graduated, and I could expect the job. Normally this would have upset me, but I had worked my ass off in this lab. I didn't feel like he was giving it to me because he knew me—it was because I had proven myself capable.

So, with two years left and the world of forensic science in front of me, I pressed on. I was anxious to get into the field, and anxious to have something to throw myself into with a passion. I knew from experience that it would make the nightmares go away… and if it couldn't be a man to exhaust me, I'd just need to make sure the job exhausted me.


	26. August 1996

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: So I had some time--and got impatient--and finished 26... so here are two more chapters for you lovely readers (and reviewers? hint hint :) )

Let me know what you think!

Oh, also... I might be wrong on Lindsey's age... I scoured in the internet trying to find a definate age for her, and I got many different results. So if you know for sure, or even not for sure... let me know! It bothered me for like two weeks...

* * *

Chapter 25: August 1996

Uncle Gil

Catherine Willows was a beautiful woman, with a beautiful three year old daughter, and a husband I absolutely couldn't stand. But I'd played nice, when he came into the lab, and even volunteered to watch Lindsey a number of times, either so they could go out for their anniversary or when Eddie wouldn't take off work so Catherine could take care of her mother when her appendix had burst. They usually dropped her off at the townhouse with grateful and begrudging smiles, respectively, with a bag full of toys and books and a few favorite movies.

I'd order a pizza and we'd watch the Disney movies. She wanted to rewind each song, so she could re-sing it, and so by the end of my second night of babysitting, I knew all the words too. And then, without knowing how it happened, I became 'Uncle Gil.' Maybe it was one of the times Catherine picked her up, saying, "Okay, honey, we have to go. Say goodbye to Uncle Gil." Or maybe it was simply a title that fell upon me, because there was no other name for me… but it was nice, to feel like I had a family, even if it was superficial.

And it was superficial—Catherine and I didn't speak unless at work, on the rare breakfast run, or when I was watching Lindsey. Eddie only barely disguised his dislike and even mistrust of me—I think he worried Catherine and I were having an affair, though I don't know how such a thing was conceivable… between work and Lindsey, Catherine hardly had any time. Though I truly liked Catherine, and considered her as much my friend as Jim, or really, as much as _anyone_ could be… I truly wasn't attracted to her, and much like Laura, I valued my Lindsey-time more than my Catherine-time… even if Lindsey wasn't Amber.

Because no one could really be Amber. Lindsey was a sweet girl and I loved her, but she was very much her mother's daughter—hard-headed, excitable, one-minded, bold. None of this was bad—as I say, I loved her too—but Amber had been a giggly little body full of life and playfulness… she was not as eager as Lindsey to grow up, and she had a sweetly quiet reserve to her that was only underscored by the depth of her compassion and understanding.

But of course, those are the musings of a biased father who has lost it all.

As Lindsey got older, and as Catherine and Eddie's relationship suffered, the trips became less frequent, and they were often less pleasant as well—I would receive a frantic call that her mother was out of town, and Eddie and she had fought… he was out drinking, but she knew exactly how it would be when he came home, and could I take Lindsey for a night?

At first, I had been extremely concerned—had he hit her? Hurt her? "No, Gil, nothing like that… he just screams a lot, and Lindsey doesn't need to hear it."

And when no marks appeared, time and time again, I let it go. If I knew the woman, she was not likely to stay with a man who used her as a punching bag, and beyond that it wasn't really my business. I kept an eye out, though, for bruises—both on her and Lindsey. I wasn't going to be the person who knew, all along, and did nothing to help.

* * *

Tattoo

I visited Kelly in Seattle, which is where she had moved. Strange, that we should both end up on the West Coast again—she teased me that I had come to find her in Boston, she had just followed me back.

"You need me… you'll never get laid again if I'm not relatively close."

I squeezed my eyes closed. I was kind of okay with the idea of being celibate for the rest of my life, truth be told.

Still, she had fallen head over heels in love since her move, and demanded I make a trip to meet the boyfriend. I seriously considered re-gifting the box she'd given me at my nineteenth birthday—Michael and I hadn't used anything but the lingerie and the massage oil. Still, even unused… that was just gross.

So I boarded a plane and spent a week in Seattle with the only real, close, _best_ friend I'd had in my life. When you were constantly hiding things—when you couldn't let anyone come over to play—it was hard to have friends. Eric was _Mr. Wonderful's_ name, and he _was_ wonderful, although I didn't get to spend much time with him… he worked a lot, and was trying to give Kelly and I time to catch up. Still, several dinners and a night out were enough for me to see how much he loved her and how well he treated her.

I was truly and sincerely happy for her… even if she kept snatching cigarettes from my mouth while we were out.

"Seriously, what the hell, Kel? They don't just grow on trees…"

She giggled. "Technically, they do grow…. kind of. Anyway, they're bad for you. Didn't you stop smoking when you were with Michael?"

I shrug. "More or less… I started again when I moved."

"And… _why_ is that?"

"When you live alone and you don't know anyone, you have a lot more spare time to think about all the good things nicotine can do for you…"

"Like lung cancer, and—"

I cut her off. I've heard it. "Yeah, I know, Kelly. You don't need to tell me."

"So quit already."

I groan. "Weren't we out to be wild and crazy…? Let's stop lecturing me on my irresponsible nicotine use and do something exciting!"

We just happened to be walking between dance clubs—Kelly apparently had some favorites, already—and were passing a tattoo parlor.

You would think that, as an aspiring investigator, I might have taken a look at my surroundings before encouraging my excitable friend to remember how 'wild and crazy' she had wanted the night to be. She dragged me in before I could really protest, but then, I'd always wanted a tattoo… in theory.

It took us nearly an hour to decide—we were getting matching tattoos, because that was part of the bonding experience… and then we had to decide what and where.

Of course, Kelly liked the idea of a lower back tattoo, which I thought was trashy and refused. I suggested wrist, and she said she'd need to be able to cover it up in the school system—she was working as an art teacher now. At which point we determined the ankle—really, front and very top of the foot, but Kelly didn't like calling it a 'foot tattoo'—was a good choice…

It took even longer to decide _what_ it would be of. It's permanent, after all.

She wanted words in another language, I didn't like the idea of going to China and having people read me. "When are you _ever_ going to China, Sar'?"

"…If I go into China_town_, it's the same thing. Next idea."

She rolls her eyes in impatience. "Okay, but I'm not getting anything dumb, Sara Sidle! Nothing boring or intelligent…"

I giggle. "Right. I wouldn't want something that could be described as 'intelligent' on my body forever either…"

She groans. "Okay, let's see if they have a book or something…"

And they did—after much argument, we decided on a flower… well, she did. She told me I could choose it, as long as I didn't pick an ugly one. _…Like there are ugly flowers._

In the flower section, there was actually a good deal of literature on the different meanings of each flower, across cultures. She liked all of them—the ones that meant virginity and the ones that meant mourning and the ones that meant death… I liked the lotus flower.

And once I convinced her that she should just _listen_ to the meaning… she loved it.

It represented feminine sexual power and fertility, as well as birth and rebirth…

It hurt like hell, but I was used to pain. Kelly cried, and squeezed my hand until it hurt more than my foot… but it was worth it, and I did feel more powerful, with it there. When we walked back to her car—in too much pain to go out dancing anymore—it was late, and dark, and yet for the first time in three years, I wasn't glancing around in every direction, in case I was being followed.

It didn't mean I wasn't still afraid, but it felt like progress…


	27. June 1997

Disclaimer: Not mine

A/N: Please review! ...Next chapter is when they meet, so encouragement _could_ be helpful in speeding up the posting of it... :) Thanks!

* * *

Chapter 26: June 1997

Cheating

I saw Eddie at a restaurant, outside of Vegas… small, not well known… the only place I had found in the entire metropolitan area that served good German food. I had been craving knoephla soup like nobody's business, maybe because I'd spent so much time longing after everything I'd lost in Minnesota.

People say that time heals all wounds—whoever said it had never lost a child. When I made big changes in my life, I could focus and therefore not suffer with every breath… but I was settled in Vegas, with no intent nor desire to leave, and I didn't really have anyone… I had two people at work I talked to, _only at work_—A woman who certainly had her own share of personal issues to deal with, and another middle-aged man who didn't share much of himself either, except for the bottle of scotch he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

With thoughts on the Midwest, I suppose it was only natural to crave something thick and warm and satisfying, even if it was only a soup that reminded me of my life there. Laura always made it, when me or Amber were sick—better than Chicken Noodle, she would tell me, and I would roll my eyes indulgently.

Still, when you drive a half an hour to an obscure mom-and-pop diner for food native to an entire other region of the country… you don't expect to see your coworker's husband with his tongue down another blonde's throat. I was stunned at first—my mind unable to catch up with my body fast enough to tell me to look away, to not be seen…

And then he caught my eye, and I wasn't sure what to do. I'm not a confrontational man—I have to pushed to anger—but I cared about Catherine… her husband and her daughter were the most important things in her world. …Maybe that's why I didn't tell her. It certainly wasn't for Eddie's sake…

I had looked away, shaking my head in disgust, and turned to my food. I heard him murmur something to the woman—clearly too young for him—and then in a moment he was sitting across the booth from me.

"Gil…"

I shake my head. "Eddie."

"Listen… let me explain the situation…"

"Let me guess, she's your kid sister?"

He laughed. I didn't. His smile faded.

"No… I can't deny it, I know you're not an idiot… I was having an affair with her."

"Was?" I asked, with a raised brow. His mouth was still stained red from her lipstick.

"Yes!" He seemed eager to grasp onto this. "I… I'm breaking it off with her. I, well… I already did, last week… and then she calls me, today, and says she's moving back home, to Virginia... and can I come have dinner, one last time, to say goodbye? …I—I love Catherine, Gil."

I shake my head. "A happily married man doesn't cheat."

He almost growled at my words, but I wasn't afraid of the man—my eyebrows simply moved closer to my hairline as I watched him try to dig himself out of the hole he was in.

"I'm obviously not happily married, Gil. You've had to take Lindsey enough times to know as much… but I _do_ love her, and that's why I ended it. …I want things to work between us. I want… I want us to feel like we did when we first got married."

I shake my head. "It isn't going to feel like that… at least, not all the time. You can't be a newlywed forever… but even so, when you love someone, you don't… you don't _need_ the butterflies. That person is enough, on their own, without the excitement of the newness of it…"

"God damn it, Gil! I'm _trying_! I broke it off with her! I just… you have to listen…"

But that's when I reach my breaking point, slamming a fist on the table between us, causing several of the conversations that had been lilting around us to falter.

"_No_, you listen! Catherine is the best thing that ever happened to a dirty scumbag like you, and for god knows what reason, she loves you. Not only does she love you, but she supports you, and Lindsey, while you're trying to chase one of the least-reliable careers out there, instead of providing for your family. Now, I'm not stupid enough to believe that you're actually breaking it off, or that Miss Virginia over there is really headed home to her mother… so give me one good reason why I shouldn't call Catherine right now and rid her of the parasite you are in this farce of a marriage?"

He draws in a shuddering breath, but I feel no sympathy for the man. Finally, he speaks. "…One… one reason. …She loves me. If you told her… she would fall apart. You know that, as well as I do."

I close my eyes, sadly, but reopen them with no less anger. "Go end it with that woman, _really_ end it, rather than your bullshit excuses. Then, you go buy Lindsey a new copy of Aladdin, because she's watched it so many times with babysitters, when _you_ couldn't watch her, that the tape is stuttering in some places, and then you buy Catherine the nicest piece of jewelry you can afford, and you go home. You spend some time with the family that you're damn lucky to have, and you learn to be content sharing your bed with _just one_ beautiful woman."

He looks uncertain, and I pull out my phone, even angrier. "Or I can call her and let her know, and then I'll pick up the items on my way over to pick up the pieces of a life that was more than you ever deserved… You make the choice."

And I watched, my anger not subsiding, as he went back to his booth. I could hear snatches of the conversation, and she left ten minutes later with tears running down her face… I hope it was honest, but you can never be sure. He glared at me, before he left, and I put my phone away, feeling exhausted.

Maybe I should have told her… she _did_ have the right to know… I just knew how much it would hurt her.

And the next night, when I saw her at work, gushing to anyone who would listen about the necklace she was wearing and how wonderful Eddie was… I couldn't bring myself to take that happiness from her, even if it was false, and even if I had the feeling that it was short-lived, at best.

There were enough broken families in this world, without my help.

* * *

Wedding

Of course, Kelly being the woman she was, married Eric the following June. It was to be expected, really… she'd always been impulsive, and anyone could see how sincerely they loved each other. And even though I had sworn up and down when she got engaged that there was no way in hell I was putting on a bridesmaid's dress and prancing around her while she let her father 'give' her to her husband, somehow here I was, clad in a strapless red gown, tying up the corset back of her poufy white princess dress.

I hated dresses. And I was the _only-eff-ing-bridesmaid_, so I couldn't even get lost in the group.

…But I'd never in my life seen anyone so truly and honestly happy, and I bit my damn tongue. Kelly didn't need my cynicism.

Eric's brother walked me down the aisle, his daughter—Eric's niece—behind us, dropping flowers for the most beautiful bride I thought I would ever see—face bright, already streaked with tears, expressive and uplifted in the most reverent smile I'd ever seen. And a glance at Eric showed me that it was every bit reciprocated.

It was in that moment I decided I believed in true love. Like, one-person-on-the-whole-face-of-the-fucking-earth-that-is-meant-for-only-you love.

I just thought that most people didn't find it. And there was not a soul in the world who deserved it more than my Kelly.

So I smiled even as tears cascaded down my cheeks all through the service, and I smiled when I fixed her make up in the church bathroom before pictures… I smiled when Eric's drunken brother hit on me, I smiled when I held up her dress in the bathroom so she could pee for the first time since early that morning, and I smiled when I told the bar tender to mix her drinks very weak… she had always overdone it, and she deserved to remember her wedding night.

I caught her bouquet, I danced the chicken dance, I gave a speech that made her blush—_payback_—and threatened Eric's manhood if he ever hurt her, but mostly just expressed how much I loved her and how happy I was for the pair of them. And when she hugged me at the end of the reception, off to her first night as a married woman, there was no doubt in either of our minds what we meant to each other.

"Thank you so much, Sara. I… I couldn't have done this without you."

I scoff. "You didn't need me… you have Eric. He's all you need." I almost felt like I was losing her… how strange. But she seemed to sense it, and gripped me tighter.

"You're my best friend in the whole world, Sara… you're my sister, and my mother and my daughter, and I love you so much."

I laugh, wiping away tears. "I love you too. …Go get laid, _Mrs. Reed_."

She grinned, and hugged me again, and ran into Eric's arms before leaving the ballroom to great applause, and I made my escape shortly after.

What she had said was true—even if it was a little… _deep_ for her. We had both been that, to each other… mother and sister and daughter and best friend… I didn't think there would be another woman, my whole life long, who would be dearer to my heart than Kelly.

…But she _did_ have Eric, now.

I would just have to keep searching for _the one_.

Truth be told, I hadn't believed in a "one" before now, but today I had seen otherwise… and now that I knew such a thing existed, how could I ever settle for anything less?


	28. April 1998

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with them.

A/N: The long-awaited moment has come... :)

Please please please review! Oh, and I have the next several chapters ready, and I check the site often so... the more reviews I get, the more likely I am to post quickly...

Yay GSR! :)

* * *

Chapter 27: April 1998

Forensic Academy Conference

I almost didn't speak at the conference. They'd petitioned me in January, and I'd turned them down—I never spoke at conferences in April… not because I had actively decided not to do so, but because ever since I'd lost Amber to the witness protection program, I got very, very sick in April.

I'm sure it's psychological—I'm making myself sick, thinking about her birthday, and when I'd lost her—but it still happens, no matter how hard I try to tell myself that it won't if I decide it won't. So I'd just stopped scheduling anything that I'd need to cancel.

But a week before, they called and asked me to reconsider—they'd had someone drop out at the last minute—another forensic entomologist—and I was the only other one even remotely close to San Francisco, where the conference was being held. And so, grudgingly, I had agreed. I wasn't sick yet—maybe this was the year that I would break the habit.

I was strangely grateful to be away from the lab—Ecklie had been promoted to the day shift supervisor position, after their former supervisor had retired. He, curiously, had been staying late a lot more lately, as if he wanted to see me, but I avoided him.

I didn't care about his promotion—he was better at playing politics for those above him, because I had no interest in such things—but I knew if the man made a single snide comment to me I might do something uncalled for, and he wasn't worth my job or my reputation. Mostly due to the efforts of the night shift, our lab was now ranked seventh in the country.

It had been difficult to find a hotel room—the city apparently had several major events taking place at the same time. Although the conference went on for two weeks, I was only able to find rooms—between two different hotels—for the first week. I figured that, worst case scenario, I would book a room in a surrounding city and do a long commute—I wasn't staying anywhere that would still have openings at this point—a UV scan of the bed alone would prevent that.

The flight was long, and I arrived late, taking a rental car to my hotel and collapsing in bed, well after midnight, not eager for the early morning ahead of me. I should have slept more on the plane—I was never good at sleeping at night. I'd been on the graveyard schedule for too long. Still, I managed a few hours, and was up with the sun to shower, dress, eat a poor excuse for a "continental breakfast," and get directions from the desk clerk to my destination.

I still got lost, but managed to arrive and park a half an hour before I had to speak. I got directions to the information desk that had been set up, talked to someone about getting my equipment moved into my lecture hall from my car, and snagged a flier. I read it while cases of bugs and boxes were moved in. Glancing over the schedule, I was glad to see that this room would be mine for the duration of the convention—maybe, if I could ascertain the security of the building, I could leave all this stuff here over night.

Fifteen minutes until I had to speak—people were starting to file in. It was a professional conference, but I didn't feel nervous, even though my students were people I would normally view as colleagues—there were only fifteen forensic entomologists in the country, and my lab was one of the best in the country… so I wasn't likely to step on any toes here.

I left quickly, to grab myself a large cup of coffee and a bottle of water, and made my way back into the room.

Seven minutes until I was scheduled to speak, and the attendance was still pretty sparse. I repeated this particular lecture the next day, in the afternoon. It was not entirely unlikely that most of the people interested would take the time to sleep in. I was scanning the room, wondering whether I should just cancel it—tell everyone to take the extra hour and a half to get a decent breakfast—and that I'd just do the lecture once—when I saw _her_.

She walked down the steps, slowly, her eyes on the flier before her, but her feet not missing a step. She was dressed up, but not as professionally as the others around her—a soft, flowing white skirt, tailored but still floaty, falling just below her knees, a brown shirt with a round neckline—low enough to be enticing, without being inappropriate, short sleeves, a seam below the bust and buttons down the front, and brown flats—still dressy, but not heels.

She had her hair up, with a pencil stuck through it—perhaps holding it up. Her left arm carried a notebook, upon which rested the schedule and flier she was reading so intently, her right hand clutched a large cup of coffee and a pen still strung between her fore and middle fingers at the tip, and against her thumb at the back, like she'd been in the process of writing just before she'd picked up the cup and hadn't thought to move it.

She moved down, looking up in surprise when she reached the bottom of the steps, and then moved to sit in a chair quickly, resting her coffee on the table top and immediately beginning to write on the papers before her with the pen still held so aptly in those delicate fingers. I realized I was staring, and was about to attempt to tear my gaze from her when she looked up at me.

Our gazes met and electricity passed through us—both sets of eyes widened simultaneously in surprise, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I had seen this girl before. And she really was a girl, not a woman—she was so _young_. She must be very new to the field…

And that made me close my eyes and turn away, despite the magnet attraction her eyes held on mine—she was too young, and I certainly wouldn't be of interest to her, whatever connection I had invented in my mind over this breathtaking brunette. I glanced at my watch, realizing that it was time to start, and I cleared my throat, beginning.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Gilbert Grissom, forensic entomologist with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I know it's early, and I do tend to go overboard when I get caught up in details or, worse yet, discussing insects, so please, stop me if I'm going on a tangent, and feel free to interrupt with any questions… this doesn't need to be a lecture—we're all professionals, and a dynamic debate would be far more engaging.

"So, the topic of this particular discussion is about the influence of first impressions in forensics—whether instincts and gut reactions can give us insight we would otherwise have ignored, or whether they distract from the evidence… lead to crunching evidence to fit a theory, rather than forming a theory to fit the evidence. In order to discuss this, I'll use a case my team worked on a little over a year ago—a double murder in a garage…"

* * *

Forensic Academy Conference

I had had to get two professors and my boss at the lab to talk to the forensic academy people so I could get a damn invitation, but I had one—_I was going to the conference!_ Of course, I would have been invited on my own had it been held a month—hell, _two weeks_—later. I just hadn't graduated yet. I'd taken my finals and I was on the May schedule as a CSI level 1 at the Frisco lab.

The Forensic Academy made the exception for me, and most my friends at the Frisco lab laughed at the effort I put into being invited—most of them were only attending a few of the lectures, and then only because it was expected as we were the host city and because it counted for required training hours.

But _I_ was ecstatic! I was most interested in the lectures by a final addition to the schedule—replacing someone else last minute, I guess—whom a teacher of mine said I would thoroughly enjoy. She claimed that he was one of the best CSIs in the country, and that I sometimes reminded her of him—our natures were similar, apparently.

So I'd made a point to schedule my days around his lectures—I would have gladly slept in this morning, because the drive from Berkeley took a good hour in morning traffic, but his later lecture had overlapped with an extremely interesting one on facial reconstruction to identify skeletal remains from which no DNA could be extracted, so here I was.

I had found parking in a hurry, a pen still clutched in my hand—it had been used to hold my place on the page of the conference flier I was reading, in traffic. When the cars would all stop, I'd look over to the passenger seat and read, or write a note to myself—when we started moving again, the tip of my pen held my place.

I gathered my pile of papers and my notebook, along with my pen and coffee and purse and keys, and somehow managed to balance it all and move towards the building where he would speak.

I had heard from everyone else that this particular speaker was kind of dull—dry sense of humor, serious—lots of quoting and intensive evidence explanation—not very dynamic. But I thought that that style might suit me—I liked details. It was one of the reasons I caught things that others didn't.

Still, I was thankful I'd thought to stop for a large coffee—if he was as dull a speaker as they'd claimed, I would need it to remain awake. I didn't want to embarrass myself, here, where I was surrounded by people I couldn't even really call colleagues yet.

I was still glancing over the explanation for this particular lecture as I made my way into the lecture hall and down the steps, one by one, careful not to slip while my attention was otherwise involved. I was so glad I'd worn flats. When I reached the bottom—not feeling the edge of a step against the ball of my foot—I was surprised, and quickly moved to take a seat in the front row. I hadn't necessarily intended to sit so close, but my steps had gotten away from me, and I didn't want to backtrack. We'd be starting in a minute.

As I sat, I released my coffee, finally, making a note next to the title—"Double Murder in a Garage—Instinct vs. Evidence." _Why not both?_

I smiled softly, and finally turned my eyes upward, to see the man who had been described to me in such conflicting terms. Our eyes met—and a jolt went through me, like nothing I'd ever felt before. I felt my eyes widen in time with his, and knew that he had felt it too. I felt butterflies in my stomach, and as he broke the eye contact, I felt myself letting my eyes slide over his face and body appreciatively—_Yes, I definitely liked older men._

His soft curls were a beautiful, soft brown, with just a hint of gray at the temples—which was perhaps the sexiest part. I felt a compulsion to run my fingers through those curls, to see if their texture was as soft as their appearance. His eyes—the ones that had shaken me so deeply—were the brightest, most intense blue.

His face was soft, but with a few angles—the line of the jaw, the nose, the cleft chin. I had the feeling that he would look very much like a little boy when he smiled—the softness in his face promised that. His lips looked soft too—and beautifully shaped—when he began speaking, I marveled at the delicate way they moved.

The voice itself was gentle but deep and masculine, and it felt like a caress. He adjusted his glasses while speaking, an offhanded gesture he probably wasn't even aware of, and my eyes focused on his hands—strong, wide, with short, clean nails.

I felt my face flush as my mind, without my consent, imagined how they would feel—broad fingers entwined in mine, a gentle thumb against my face, soft palms trailing down my body, full and capable hands holding me in a moment of intimacy. I shake my head slowly, trying to clear the images, and the haze lifts only enough to allow me to continue my adoration of him.

He was tall, broad shouldered—he rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt after only a few minutes of speaking, and I nearly fainted at the sight of his forearms. Weird, I know, but muscled arms do something to me that muscled anything else just can't… something about how safe I would feel, tucked inside them.

I realized, after a few minutes, when he had asked a question to the group, that I had no idea what he'd asked… I had no idea what he'd said, since introducing himself and telling people to ask questions…

_Focus, Sidle, you're not here to eat the eye candy. You're a professional._

And surprisingly, once I started listening, I was more enthralled with the man than I had been when I hadn't heard him—he was decidedly logical, but insightful, and confident. He quoted a lot—but they were appropriate and enlightening—they added so much to the discussion, and I was impressed that he didn't read them from his note cards—he just seemed to pull them from his memory, as the moment required. I felt myself drawn to his striking intelligence, his steadfast argument that while intuition was important in a job like this—sometimes, you really did just _know_—the evidence was always _more_ important.

If your intuition was right, but you couldn't prove it, then it didn't matter. A killer went free.

If your intuition was wrong, and you ignored evidence that would prove it to be, a killer went free, you could send an innocent person to jail or possibly their death, and you could be risking your credibility as a CSI—your whole career, really.

The only way to walk the line was to be simultaneously aware of intuition and logic, and to separate the two in your own mind. First impressions were important, of course, but when the evidence changed, you had to change with it.

I asked too many questions—I couldn't help it. I wanted to glean every last detail and nuance of his experience and expertise—and I loved when he looked at me, made eye contact with me, answered me directly. It sent shivers down my spine, and I noticed that he smiled, when I asked a question. He didn't do that for the others.

Maybe I was disillusioned—I wasn't even really in the field we were discussing, at the moment, and he was teaching the professionals. He was an expert—one of the best in the country—and just about the sexiest man I'd ever laid eyes on. Truthfully, I had little to offer him compared to the women around me—they were older, more mature, more advanced in their careers… but I felt like he noticed me, more than he noticed the others.

I couldn't just let that go.

I smiled to myself, relating my internal debate to his lecture. My intuition, my first blush, was that there was a mutual attraction. My logic was telling me that he would have no reason to be attracted. The evidence was telling me… so far, that he at least did not look down on me. So far, I was at least equal to any other woman here… and he had smiled at me… we had had the electricity…

Still, it was inconclusive. You couldn't convict someone on circumstantial evidence… and so, I would have to make the effort to gather more.

The last twenty minutes of his lecture I reigned myself in—become less involved—because I wanted to save some questions to ask him personally. How _else_ was I going to gather evidence?

When he finished up with a final glance in my direction, I noted gleefully, people began to rise and I gathered my papers too. Noticing that several others had gone up for questions, I allowed myself a moment to organize myself—I didn't want to be in complete disarray once I reached him.

At which point I realized I hadn't even done my hair this morning—I'd been so worried about leaving on time, in case traffic was bad, that I'd just wrapped it around a pencil and intended to fix it later. I hastily slid the pencil out, using my fingers to brush my brown locks up into a ponytail I'd had around my wrist—it wasn't much, but it was better than the pencil situation.

Finally, the group around him was thinning. I stood, hooking my purse over my shoulder and gathering my notebook and papers into my left arm again. I tucked the pen into the purse, and tossed the empty cup in a garbage can as I made my way up to him. He was speaking to a woman, but his eyes kept flickering from her face, over her shoulder, to me. He answered her too hastily, bade her goodbye, and fixed those sapphires on me. My heart fluttered as our eyes locked again—good lord, they were so brightly blue.

"Hi, Dr. Grissom, I, um, I'm Sara Sidle." We shook hands, and heat flowed neatly between our fingers. It didn't surprise either of us, this time, but I smiled shyly… I couldn't help myself. I didn't feel like I had wanted anything… anyone… so badly in my whole life.

"I, um… maybe this is too personal… But I listened to your lecture, and while you gave hypothetical examples or referenced members of your team having intuition that was helpful or hurtful…you didn't mention yourself. I was just wondering how _you_ balance logic and intuition—how much you let your intuition guide the way you view and analyze a scene."

He smiled, softly, and yet still brightly—he _did_ look like a little boy when he smiled. Somehow, it made him all the more attractive. I tried to control the emotions ranging over my face as I watched him.

"Well, Ms. Sidle, you… you look fairly young, so… correct me if this is presumptuous of me, but I imagine you haven't had too many years on the job?"

I blushed. "No, sir."

He grinned. "You can call me Gil, Dr. Grissom if you _must_… not sir."

His grin was contagious. "Okay… Gil." The name fell from my lips awkwardly, but my mouth liked the feel of it… my tongue ached to say it again, just so it could feel its path up to my teeth again.

"Well, after you've seen enough cases through to the end, you start to notice how a homicide feels different from an accident. Granted, in twenty years, I'll still spend most of my cases not sure what happened… but a lot of intuition isn't really instinct, as people like to say, it's experience."

"How do you avoid making mistakes, then, when you're new to being a CSI, like myself?"

He stretched and relaxed his jaw, and I wanted to kiss my way up the delicate line of it. I curled up my toes in my shoes, to keep control of myself. "Well, Ms. Sidle—"

"Sara." I interrupted, and the smile that broke across his face was breathtaking. I never, ever, wanted to see it go.

"Sara." He amended, continuing, "For some of it, you'll just have to wait… make sure that evidence collection is impartial and impersonal… but, I imagine, in a lot of scenes you'll have a sense about things, even now… You're a very insightful person; your mind seeks out details. That's a really good thing, for a CSI."

I felt the flush spread across my skin, covering my chest, neck, and face, and I stuttered to answer him. "I… I… How do you… I am?"

He chuckled softly, and I swear he let his eyes flicker up and down my body, quickly… like he couldn't help but allow himself one look.

"Your questions were not the typical questions I receive from bored or half-assed attendees. You… you looked like you were trying to solve the double murder as I went along. Like you wanted to know who'd done it before I revealed the killer."

I grinned. "I did know. I knew when you mentioned the unusual cast-off and directionality of blood drops, near the outside wall of the garage."

He smiled, but his eyes narrowed sharply. "Really? How did you know?"

I laughed—really laughed; even though he'd smiled, he seemed put out that I'd solved it so easily.

"Intuition."

I laughed again, and I heard him join me. His laugh did things to me I can't even begin to explain. I found myself short of breath, and hoped the hunger in my eyes wasn't as apparent as it felt. I tried to clear them, but his expression changed, just a little. When he spoke, his voice was a little softer.

"See, Sara, I knew it." My breath caught in my throat. I wanted him to speak to me in that light, feathery tone for the rest of existence. "Listen, uh… I don't know if you're doing anything later, but—"

"Yes." I interrupted him again, in complete disbelief that he was actually asking me out. He seemed startled, and then laughed at me.

"How do you know what I was going to ask?"

I grin. "Intuition?"

"Great!" He said teasingly, "I have some hissing cockroaches who just love new people to play with…"

I tilted my head to the side, grinning, but still unsure how to respond to that.

He chuckled again. "Dinner?"

I'm beaming again. "And here I had my heart set on the cockroaches… I, uh… Do you want my number or… my address?"

"Yeah… yeah… you know what? Are you… are you attending another lecture right now?"

My eyes opened wider. I had been planning to—I was actually a few minutes late to it—but I shook my head. "No, not right now."

"We could grab a cup of coffee, if you'd like to? I'll probably need directions to pick you up; I haven't really mastered the city yet."

"It is only the first day of the convention." I tease.

He rolls his eyes, gathering up his things—my acceptance is tacitly assumed. "I've lived in California most of my life. It's hardly my first time in San Francisco…"

I smile, glad to have something in common with him. "I grew up here too. Well, not in Frisco, but just north of the city… Tomales Bay."

He grins at me, and we're slowly walking out of the lecture hall, engrossed in our conversation. "Frisco?" When I just smile, he continues. "I lived in the L.A. area pretty much my whole life… the first 25 years of it, anyway."

"Lemme guess, UCLA?"

He grins. "For my undergrad and masters degrees, yeah."

"Where'd you go for your doctorate?"

"Chicago."

My eyes light up. "Wow, that's a change from California. Why'd you go there?"

He shrugs, "I wanted to see a different part of the country, and one of the few other forensic entomologists in the country was teaching there, at the time. It seemed perfect... do you mind if we stop at my car? I can drop off all of this…" He lifted his stack of papers from his lecture, to exemplify what "all of this" was.

"Of course. I'm not really familiar with this campus as it is, so we'll probably have to search for a coffee place…"

"When's your next lecture?"

I grin. "When's yours?" I already know—noon. I was attending it.

He smiled, understanding my meaning. "Are you sure you're not a closet entomologist?"

I giggle. "No, I'm a physicist. …I'm just interested in timeline regression… and, well, honestly… you."

He blushes a little, and this makes me feel good—the attraction has to be mutual if I'm making this much older, very respected, man blush. "Oh? Why's that?"

"I actually had a professor who told me that you were one of the best CSIs in the country, and that… well, that I reminded her of you. She thought I would learn a lot from someone whose thought processes worked so similarly to mine… I had planned to attend all of your lectures."

He looks embarrassed under such praise, but also thoroughly intrigued. "Who was your professor?"

"JoAnne Kemmel."

A surprised grin crossed his face. "Wow, really? Dr. Kemmel? Where's she teaching now? She was one of my supervisors, in Hennepin County, when I first started out."

I grin. "Berkeley."

He lets out a low whistle. "Impressive, Sara Sidle. I imagine you took her classes for grad school?"

I nod.

We reach his car, and he unlocks it, setting his stack of papers and files into the back seat. I take the opportunity to tuck my notebook, filled with my own papers, into the large purse slung over my right shoulder—it fits easily, with room to spare. I've never been a purse person, so if I'm going to bother carrying one on a daily basis, it had better be useful.

"Was that your only school?" he asks, while closing and relocking his car doors.

"Huh?"

He smiles, moving over to my left side and guiding me back up to the sidewalk with a hand on the small of my back. It sends tingles up my spine. "Berkeley. Did you get your undergrad degree there as well?"

"Oh… no."

He chuckles softly. "So, then, you went to another school…"

I laugh. He doesn't want to ask, and I don't want to volunteer it without being asked—people react too strongly when you say you went to Harvard, especially outside of Boston. "Yes, that is generally how the process of higher education works."

He groans in frustration and I nudge his shoulder softly with my own. His eyes flicker to the side, to look at me.

I sigh. "Harvard."

His eyebrows shot up. "Harvard? Wow, you don't mess around, do you?"

I laugh, and then draw in a shaky breath and smile—he had slipped his hand into mine, and held it now. My fingers had never, ever, felt warmer. My _whole body_ felt warmed with the contact. "Well, I dunno if I'd say that… I spent ten years pursuing higher education, and I'm nowhere near a PhD. I mess around a _little_…"

He stops walking then, his head tilting in confusion. "Ten years? …Sara, you… you don't look like you could be older than 25… and… how could it take you ten years?"

I laugh again, because he looked so confused, and squeeze his hand gently, starting us walking again. "I started at Harvard when I was sixteen. Five years, a physics and a credit-short-of-a-chemistry degree later, I started grad school, still at Harvard. But… after a year I… I decided I needed… a change of pace. So I transferred to Berkeley, and spent four years getting my masters degrees in physics and forensics."

He nods, thinking, and I expect him to ask about me starting school when I was sixteen. I don't expect him to be doing math.

"…How old are you?"

I'm surprised, to say the least. "I, uh… 26."

He looks at me, and then pulls his hand from mine, a little alarmed. I feel its absence acutely. "It's… April."

I'm confused. "Yes…?"

"Following your ten-year-plan… if you're twenty-six right now… you… you haven't graduated yet."

Shit. I close my eyes and open them slowly, taking a deep breath. "It's a technicality—my finals are finished, I've talked to my professors… I had a 4.0 this semester. The diploma will be given in a little over a week and I have a job as a CSI level one at the Frisco lab waiting for me."

He stays rooted to the spot he's standing in. "Sara… I, uh… I can't take you out tonight. …I can't even take you for coffee."

I know there's hurt and confusion on my face, and I try to hide it. I don't want to be so transparent. "I… I don't understand."

"You're a college student. Until you actually have that diploma in hand, Sara… I feel like your teacher, almost. It… it doesn't feel… ethical. The… power structure…"

I don't know if I'm angry or sad—tears brim in my eyes, and I think I'm even angrier because of it—angry and irrational, and already feeling the loss. "But in two weeks, you could fuck me and leave me and it would be more acceptable than a coffee date today?"

He looks alarmed—at my anger, at my swearing, and at the point I'm making—but he doesn't disagree.

I scoff, disdainfully, my temper rising within me once again.

"You know, _Dr. Grissom_, if you had found out and responded by gently telling me that you were _concerned_… or if you had ended our date tonight without a kiss, telling me you wanted to wait until you felt right about it, until no part of you could argue that our difference in positions was making me anything less than consensual, I would have understood that… _respected_ that. I don't want your credibility, your ethics, put in question anymore than you do… I know how those things come under scrutiny in court. …But to tacitly agree that holding my hand now is more unethical than sleeping with me and never calling me again two weeks later…" I shake my head in disbelief. "Maybe I need to be attending another speaker's lectures.... Your judgment seems a bit skewed."

I turn from him, walking away, cursing my temper and how much it hurt to lose a man I had never had. He didn't follow, but then, I didn't really expect him to.


	29. Sara Sidle

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, etc.

A/N: :) Hope you like. Please review!!

Also, for Part Two the chapters will be one-sided, because I didn't want to write all the scenes they were in together twice... maybe once we get into the actual events from on the show, I'll go back to that... undecided yet. Let me know what you think!

* * *

Part Two: After

Chapter 1: Sara Sidle.

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, long after she had disappeared from sight. I didn't know what to say—how to respond. After a good ten minutes, I turned and walked back to my car, in a daze. I had never in my life been so impressed and enthralled with a woman.

_A girl…_ that pesky voice in the back of my head reminded me. _She's _fifteen_ years younger than you… and _far_ too beautiful…_ but she had accepted the date. She had held my hand. She had been interested too…

I sat in the driver's seat, contemplating what had just happened. Had I really been so wrong, so off-base, to tell her I couldn't take her on a date? I hadn't even thought about the complications that could come up in a court room, as she had mentioned… I was thinking about _her_.

That was the basis behind statutory rape… and the reason why teachers couldn't date adult students… If the power structure was off, sex could not truly be consensual. Nothing could be consensual. I hadn't wanted to take advantage of her… she was the most amazing woman I thought I had ever met…

She was brilliant—insightful, daring, quick-witted. She had a fire in her that heated me to my core, even as she'd yelled at me… Her laugh—the soft space between her teeth when she smiled—it gave me butterflies like I was still in high school. I _felt_ younger in her presence.

Even if the time we'd spent together had been short, it was almost like gravity had been pulling me closer and closer to her—I had wanted to be as close as possible, know as much as possible, and be known as much as possible.

That was a rare desire, as far as I was concerned. Yet I had managed to send her running away from me within minutes, with angry tears in eyes so deeply chocolate brown that I felt like I could spend years drinking them in, tasting their every expression, deep in my being.

It was very dejectedly that I trudged my way back to the lecture hall, dreading having to explain through the impossible concept of insect timeline regression—even if you understood the basics, if you weren't an entomologist, it would be several days work to construct anything more than the most basic of timelines.

And after the engaging lecture I'd just given—after the engaging woman I'd just lost before I had known if I could have her—I was of half a mind to cancel it. That was the second time, today, that I had wanted to just cancel and leave… go home.

It was also the second time that her appearance in the lecture hall changed my mind.

She was not distracted as she moved down the steps this time… she looked at me warily, and gave me a shy smile, which I returned, apologetically. I tried to communicate what an idiot I'd been—for tacitly agreeing… for not explaining myself better—with only my eyes, and her broader smile reassured me a little.

Suddenly, I was excited about my subject again—she had said she was interested in the timeline—I would make it interesting for her. I would make sure she understood—and I had no doubt that that brilliantly sexy brain of hers would be able to take this short lecture, minimal explanation, and construct her own timeline in half the time it would take anyone else.

I had to remind myself, occasionally, that she wasn't the only person in the room… that I needed to look away from her, make eye contact with others, and scan the room for questions. She didn't ask questions, this time, but I could tell by the frequency with which she flipped her notebook pages, and the frantic way in which she wrote, that she had plenty. I hoped she would let me answer them.

By the end of the lecture, when everyone was filing out, she was beaming at me… and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. For some reason, it seemed like letting her walk away from me now would be the tragedy of a lifetime. …And I had known tragedy in my lifetime.

She remained seated until nearly everyone had left, and I used the time to gather my things again. She stood, tucking her notebook back into her purse and slinging it over her shoulder. She glanced at me, nervously, like she wasn't sure if she should come up to me—both because of my reaction, I thought, but also for another reason. She had come to me, the last time.

I move around the podium and desk I've stood behind and move up to her, trying my best to not appear to be too anxious. I stop, six inches from her, and our eyes meet—scared and hopeful. I smile. "I'm glad you came…"

She looks down, one side of her mouth curling up indulgently. "I'm glad I came too. You're, uh… you're a really good speaker. You're really… passionate."

She bites her bottom lip, an action which raises goose bumps down both my arms. "Can I… take you to lunch? Apologize for being an idiot?"

She smiles. "I s'pose you're done for the day…"

I realize that she probably isn't. "I'm sorry, Sara. I'm sure you wanted to go to another lecture… I, uh, I'll just ask you some other ti—"

"Gil." I stop speaking at her interruption, forcing myself to meet those gorgeous brown eyes again. I almost lose myself in them. "I have two hours… maybe, uh… maybe, after lunch, you could come to the next lecture with me?"

I feel a smile crossing my face. "You're going to get sick of me if you're not careful…"

She giggled, motioning that we should begin walking out. "Yeah, but if I want to get rid of you I can just find you some bugs to play with…"

I nudge her, playfully, glad at how easy it is with her… how simply we've fallen into a comfortable camaraderie, even after our disagreement. "It wouldn't be that easy… I'd want you to play with them too."

She laughed—really laughed—and I felt like all of life's problems disappeared within the velvet embrace of that sound. "That's okay, Gil, _really_…"

We walked to my car, yet again, and I walked her to the passenger side, opening the door for her and closing it behind her, before replacing my pile of papers in their place in the backseat. She smiled when I sat next to her, and immediately suggested a deli she had seen, a few blocks over, on her way onto campus this morning. I drive there, with a little directing, and we park again.

She starts to get out, and I stop her, catching her hand in mine gently.

"Sara… I just wanted to apologize for… for not reacting well, when I found out that you're still in school. It, uh… it was a combination of things, my own insecurities included, but it… it wasn't about reputation in court or anything like that. …Not that that wouldn't be a good reason, I guess, but… Sara, it didn't even occur to me until you said it.

"I… I've done a lot of guest lectures, in classes at UNLV. I couldn't help feeling like… like I was being the creepy teacher and that… that anything that happened between us, even the act of purchasing coffee and talking… that it would be taking advantage of you. I felt like… like I would be using that vulnerability, which I hadn't even realized existed, for my own personal… satisfaction. …I felt sick with myself, just at the thought."

She smiles softly, squeezing my hand reassuringly. "You're a good man, Gil. But… you're not my teacher. I received an invitation to the conference, albeit in a round-about way… that alone should make me your colleague. If, in your mind… it doesn't, then we wait the week and two days until I get my diploma, and… make up for lost time."

Her last statement rushed through me like fire and settled deep in my lower abdomen, and I coughed roughly, just to distract myself from the sensation—the implication—behind those words.

"Uh… shall we?" I gestured to the restaurant, and she rewarded me with a smile.

"Yes! I'm starving."

I laugh at her exuberance, and try to beat her around the car to open her door, but she's already out, grinning slyly at me. She also opens the door to the deli for me too, the grin still in place. I chuckle. "'I am woman; hear me roar'?"

She giggled again. "No, just… I am woman; I possess basic cognitive and gross motor skills…"

I slide my hand into hers again. She squeezes it immediately, and I feel a deep calm fill my chest—it's the absence of an agitation I wasn't aware I'd been holding there, until I noticed it leave.

We order quickly, and I pay, despite her protests—they were abundant, believe me—and while we wait for our soup and sandwiches to be placed on the tray, I snatch the two cups laid out for us. "What can I get you to drink?"

She narrows her eyes playfully. "I am woman; I can fill my own drink."

I roll my eyes and reply teasingly, "I am man; I can fill a lady's cup without it being a sign of my dominance." She laughs and I revel briefly in the sound—deep and throaty, but still feather-light. "Now, from the size of your coffee this morning, should I assume something well-caffeinated?"

She smiles sheepishly. "Coke, please. Thank you."

By the time I return, our food is being placed on the tray, and I pick it up, despite her still fervent complaints, and we find ourselves a table.

"So, I believe that you were telling me, this morning, before I stuck my foot in my mouth, that you started at Harvard when you were sixteen."

She smiled, coyly. "I _was_ telling you that, yes."

"…Are you… going to enlighten me?"

She seemed to think for a moment, slowly chewing the bite in her mouth and then taking a sip of her coke, for good measure. "I started school a year early—I was five in first grade. In high school I took a lot of summer school. By my senior year I was two years younger than the other seniors, but I mostly hung out with juniors anyway, so it wasn't so bad."

"Why did you want to graduate so early?"

"So I could go to college."

I tilted my head. Clearly… but that hadn't been what I'd meant. I swallow the bite in my mouth, appraising her. "Why did you want to want to go to college so early?"

She bites on her bottom lip, and I know, without knowing how I know this, that she's deciding something. She could answer me with more avoidance, she could answer the question I'm really asking, or she can do what she does: neither.

"Gil, I don't… I don't know what it is about you. I, uh… I've never in my life been so taken with a man upon just seeing him. …Especially since you had your shirt on." I laugh softly at her teasing grin, and she continues. "So I'm going to be really honest with you and… hope it doesn't scare you away."

My eyes narrow, but I nod, letting her speak, because she seems like she just wants to get it over with.

"I, uh… I don't really talk about… my past. I've ended relationships—long, healthy, relationships that I was very happy in—because of my past, whether it be because talking about it make all my insecurities and vulnerabilities rise to the surface, or because avoiding talking about it put a strain on the relationship. And I… I really want this to work, between us. Like I told you, I've never felt so strongly after just… making eye contact.

"I overreacted today, about your overreaction, because I was afraid of this ending before it had even started. And I wouldn't have come to your later lecture, if there had been less of a connection between us… So, uh… I guess I'm just forewarning you, because I want to give us a chance… I don't really talk about it, I don't like probing questions, and I run like a bat out of hell when I start to feel vulnerable."

I swallow hard, my eyebrows raised. Okay then.

"So… I'm not allowed to ask you any questions… about yourself."

She shakes her head slowly. "No, you can… ask. But… but if I avoid it, or just don't answer… you have to know that pushing the issue will push me away. It, uh… it may not even be a problem. I was just… covering my bases."

I think for a moment, and then slide my hand across to table, to wrap around hers and squeeze it. "Okay but… please, at least, let me know if I'm doing it? I'll try not to, but don't… don't run away without warning me that I'm making you want to…"

She seemed surprised at my response. Her eyebrows shot up, her eyes got wide, and a smile broke across her face. She looked hopeful. "Really? …Just like that?"

I nod, slowly. "I… I felt the connection, too, Sara. So, if… if that's what you need, then… Okay. As long as you meet me halfway… give me fair warning and… and don't expect me to tell you everything either… at least, uh… at least not right away."

She nods, slowly, curiosity burning in her eyes, but she doesn't even attempt to ask. I didn't expect her to. I chuckle softly, to myself. "So what _can_ you tell me about the oh-so-secretive woman who is Sara Sidle?"

She grins. "I… love chocolate… science… books… sex on the beach—_the drink and the activity_—" her eyes flash mischievously, and I choke on the gulp of coke I'd just taken. She continues, "…good wine, great Italian food …_older men_." She giggled at the surprised look on my face. "And I think I might be coming around to the idea of bugs…"


	30. Gilbert Grissom

Disclaimer: :) I think you know...

A/N: So I always mean to wait more than a day to post the next chapter, so that I have time to actually write more to it rather than just posting what's done already.... and then I get excited to hear what everyone will think, and I post it the next day anyway.

Being as I apparently have so little self-control, I would really appreciate reviews for all the chapters, even if by the time you check the story again it's been 3 days and 3 chapters. The smallest of praise makes my whole day...

Sad, I know. :) Enjoy!

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Chapter Two: Gilbert Grissom

We sat together in the lecture hall, waiting for it to start. He snatched the schedule from atop my notebook, to see what we would be learning about today. "Directionality—interpreting blood spatter, cast off, wound tracks, and bullet holes."

He read the title softly, and glanced at me out of the side of his eye. "Both of us know you don't need this lecture… if you knew who committed the double murder in the garage, you understand directionality."

I smile and nudge him. I miss his hand in mine, but it feels childish here, in this hall full of professionals, so I avoid the urge to take it. "Wound tracks, however, I'm not a master of."

He rolls his eyes. I wonder what he's getting at as he begins to speak. "Wound tracks are simple—did the bullet come from up or down? Stick a pole in, measure the degree. Determine the position the person was in when shot. Easy."

I laugh, looking around as the seats are beginning to fill. "Do you not want to be here, Dr. Grissom?" I ask playfully, and he looks around to make sure no one is listening to us.

"I'm sure it would be a very well-delivered _review_… that neither of us needs. …Show me some of the city."

I look around uncertainly, and then nod quickly—we gather our things and hurry to the back exit, sliding out the doors just as the lecturer enters the doors at the bottom of the hall, about to start. We laugh as we make our way out of the building.

"Oh my god, I feel like I'm a teenager playing hooky…" I giggle. He hesitates, but then asks anyway.

"Did you play hooky a lot, as a teenager?"

I smile, sliding my hand into his again now that we're out in the open. "No, not really. I mean… a little, but… I really liked school. …You?"

He chuckles. "I don't think I ever missed a day without really being sick."

My eyes narrow, and my voice is disbelieving. "You never pretended to be sick? Never?"

He laughs. "I tried. My mom was just too smart... I couldn't fool her."

I consider this, and smile. "I like thinking of a teenage you…"

He laughs. "You need a lot more imagination than I do…"

I shake my head at his comment—I don't want to talk about how young I am. I'm afraid he's going to get scared away again. "So, uh… I don't know that there's much to show you. You said you'd been to Frisco before... so I imagine you don't want to see the bridge."

He squeezes my hand. "Show me the things you care about, here… not the tourist spots."

"I live in Berkeley, you know, not Frisco…"

"So take me there." I'm surprised, and I'm sure my face shows it, because he laughs a little. "We're already playing hooky… why not be a little adventurous?"

Who could argue with that? He made me _feel_ adventurous… I was excited just by his presence. "Okay… should we drop your car off at your hotel then?"

He seems surprised by this, and I wonder if I've overstepped myself. But does he expect to drive an hour in separate cars?

"Yeah… yeah, we'll do that. Here," he said, opening the passenger door of his car for me. "I'll drive you to yours, and you can follow me to the hotel."

I direct him, and then follow him in my car, trying to tidy up as much as I can. I wasn't messy by any means—if anything I was a compulsive cleaner—but I had been in a hurry this morning, and I'd picked up fast food for breakfast. Now the bag sat in my car. I groan, and tuck it under the seat, hoping that I'd get a chance to remove it before he noticed it—true, it was only wrappers and napkins, but still, gross.

He slides into the passenger seat and takes my hand immediately into his own, smiling. I love that smile.

I squeeze his hand and, as we pull off the campus and I head towards the freeway, I glance at him. "So… I know that you lived in L.A. until you were 25, moved to Chicago for your PhD, lived in Minnesota sometime in there, because you said Professor Kemmel was your supervisor there… How did you get to Vegas?"

"They recruited me. I was working at the lab in L.A., doing speaking tours, conferences… and they offered me a job."

"…It must have been strange, going back to a lab you'd worked at, so many years ago…" I was thinking in my mind how hard it would be to go to Tomales Bay again.

He shakes his head. "I was actually a coroner in L.A., before I moved back. So it was different, working as a CSI, you know? Enough of a change…"

I smile. "Tell me about L.A."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell… they wanted me because of my reputation, and so I worked a little in the lab, and had a lot of freedom to speak around the country. I liked the travelling, but not the living out of hotel rooms. But my mother lived close and it got me out of Minnesota so…"

He stops, like he feels he's said too much. I wonder whether I should ask—he'd made it clear that he had some secrets that were off-limits too. But… if he was willing to tell me, if this part wasn't secret… I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything about him. I compromised.

"Okay… tell me about Minnesota."

His jaw tensed and relaxed again. It was a nervous tick he had, when thinking deeply. I wondered if he played poker… "It was my first job working as a CSI. My, uh… direct supervisor, Dr. Philip Gerard… he was an amazing man… a mentor, really. I wouldn't be half the CSI I am if it hadn't been for him. I idolized the man."

"How come you left?"

"I… needed a change of pace." That was the reason I gave for transferring from Harvard to Berkeley. I didn't think he was being any more truthful than I had been. But that was his right, after all. I bite on my bottom lip, thinking.

"Tell me about Chicago."

He laughs then. "I take it you haven't travelled much?"

I smile sheepishly. "I've been to Boston… Miami… Seattle… different places in California… I drove my U-haul from Boston to Berkeley!"

A sly grin crosses his face and his thumb moves gently over the knuckles of the hand he holds. "Did you stop anywhere other than at restaurants, hotels, and rest areas?"

"…No."

"It doesn't really count then."

My mouth opens in mock indignation. "I've been…. focused. I haven't had a chance to get paid to go prance around the country and talk about bugs!"

"…Prance?" He's grinning though. "…I'll have to take you on a trip somewhere…"

I turn my head, and our eyes meet for a moment—more electricity. "Oh yeah? I dunno if you'd want to do that… I have some pretty high expectations," I tease.

Yeah, _right_. As long as nobody had stabbed my father, beaten somebody I loved, or raped me there, I'd love it. I push the thoughts to the back of my mind. The nightmares had mostly gone away, and thinking about it brought them back.

He squeezes my hand. "I like a challenge…"

I smile softly. "Why me, then? I've hardly been a challenge… apparently I should be playing hard-to-get."

He trades my hand from his left to his right, and lets his left forearm drape over my seat, gently running his fingers across my shoulders and neck. I shiver. "No, Sara, you… you are a challenge, a puzzle, just not in the traditional way. But I don't think I would have done this any differently, even if you weren't…"

I blush softly, and glance at him—he's watching me intently. It deepens the blush.

"Las Vegas. Tell me about Vegas."

He laughs again, but his fingers keep up their pace. "Happiest I've been in… in a long time. We're working on the lab pretty meticulously—since I've been there it's gone from being ranked in the hundreds—I think we were something like 130, when I started—to the seventh in the country. Jim Brass, my boss, is a great man… a good friend. We both kind of keep to ourselves, but that works for us… two middle-aged men with a lifetime of baggage don't really need a bosom friend—just a bottle of scotch and some conversation every month or so."

I grin. "Scotch is your drink?"

He inclines his head to the side. "I guess it is, yes. Yours is… Sex on the Beach?"

I incline mine as well. "That or a Strawberry Daiquiri." There's a brief lull in the conversation, and I turn to him, my eyes narrowed. "You're not middle-aged, Gil."

"I'm 41…"

I roll my eyes. "Sounds like you're just a man. An adult. Middle-age doesn't start until you're in your fifties."

"You seem to think you're going to live to a hundred?"

"I'm a survivor."

There's more silence. He can tell by my tone that he isn't allowed to ask about that comment. I asked about others in Vegas, and he continued talking until we arrived in Berkeley and I began to drum my fingers on the steering wheel. "I uh… I guess I didn't think very far ahead. I don't know that there's much to show you…"

"I don't need tourist spots, or anything that's a big deal… what's your favorite coffee place? Where do you go when you're upset? Or feeling really good about something?"

I smile sheepishly. "I'm a bit of a homebody. Other than my apartment, and the beach, I don't really go anywhere. I drink coffee from the university coffee shop, unless I'm driving somewhere—in which case any drive through will do."

He smiles almost hesitantly. "I'm a homebody too. We could… just go to your apartment, unless… unless that's weird for you, so soon…"

I chuckle. "You must really think I'm young. You act like you're pursuing a teenager…" I drive quickly home, parking and locking the doors once we've both stepped out. I lead him up a couple flights of stairs and let him into my apartment—it's the nicest one I've had so far—a two bedroom, with new appliances in the kitchen, laundry, and a walk-in closet in my master bedroom. He looks around.

"Nice place. You don't decorate like a teenager…"

I roll my eyes. "I hid all my boy band memorabilia before I left the house, just in case I brought home someone _middle-aged_…" He grins at my teasing, and I lead him into the living room. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, juice, milk, water, soda… I have beer, as well, but it might be really old…"

"Coke, if you have it." He moves over to my large bookshelf which also housed all my movies and glanced at a few picture frames that were perched there. "…Am I allowed to ask about the photos?"

I come into the living room with two cold cans in tow. I glance at the one he's looking at. "My old roommate Kelly and I, on my nineteenth birthday."

He looks more closely at the picture, but doesn't ask about Michael, who has his arms around me. "Is this in Boston?" I nod. "I… I think I've been to this restaurant… at least twice. It's a college place, right? A few blocks off campus?"

"Yeah, usually really loud, but it had the best pasta in town."

He looks at me strangely, as if I've said something wrong, but then he moves onto the next picture, and he doesn't seem upset. I hand him the coke, cautiously, and glance at this one. Me with the group who had gone to Miami, in front of the chemistry building, minus Ken. I had had to search for one in which he'd taken the picture—he had been so freaking vain that it had been quite the challenge.

"Group of science nerds, from Harvard. And then there's Kelly… I was there six years, got a degree, almost two, and started grad school… she was a semester away from a single bachelor's degree when I left…"

He chuckles. "You probably balanced each other out." We had. We still did. As if in tune with my thoughts, he asks, "Do you still talk to these people?"

"Just Kelly, once a month or so… we're both busy… She's an art teacher, married, having a baby… so that's good."

He moves to the next one—Michael with my tucked back against his chest on his sailboat, his arms extended out and off picture on either side of me—having taken the picture himself, our hair thrown back in the sea breeze and beaming smiles on our faces,. I move around him, to intercept the picture following this one—Jim and Marlene with their arms around my shoulders, at my high school graduation. I put it down on its face as subtly as possible, glancing again at the picture he's still engrossed in. His voice is soft when he speaks.

"He was very much in love with you."

My eyes shoot up in alarm. "W-what?"

He smiles. "Sorry, I don't know if that's something I can't talk about… just, the way he held you. …I think he would have spent his whole life loving you."

My mouth is dry. "You, uh… you can see that from a picture?"

He nods. "You loved him too, but it wasn't the same… when he looked at you, he saw his future. …When you looked at him, you saw your present."

I swallow convulsively. "I think we're done with pictures."

He looks down. "I'm sorry Sara."

Despite my discomfort, his slight distress moves me more. I slip a hand into his and step closer to him—the proximity makes him look up at me, and the longing is there in his eyes again. His eyes flicker to my lips.

"I, uh… Michael. His name is Michael Malone. I haven't talked to him since I left Boston. He… he isn't part of what I won't talk about, I just… felt guilty, because you were right. I was always more to him than he was to me. …I hated myself for that."

He nods. "…Rebecca Andrews. I hated myself for it too."

We have a moment, and then I smile softly. "Why don't you pick a movie? I'll pop some popcorn…"


	31. Falling

Disclaimer: I don't own them, but don't they play so nice when I have them?

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Chapter 3: Falling

The strange thing about dating Sara Sidle was the tempo we set for ourselves. We knew immediately that we'd had a connection… knew that we were attracted to each other, wanted each other, and that something was going to happen between us. Yet at the same time, she was fifteen years my junior, not graduated from college, and there was a wall of no-discussion between us.

I almost wondered if it wouldn't be better for her to lie, and continue avoidance tactics, rather than the blatant honesty of her secrets. Still, by the third night together, we had managed a way to discuss our way around the stories, communicating mostly the details. The basics.

She had a late lecture that she had really wanted to attend, so she had given me a key to her apartment—as I said, everything was fast. It seemed perfectly natural that she should give me a key, and that I should make myself at home while she was busy. I went shopping, after briefly sifting through her cupboards, and had a meal ready and candles on the table when she arrived home.

We hadn't kissed yet—I wasn't certain whether I was going to wait for the diploma or not, and I think she sensed that indecision. So, if it was going to happen, it was up to me. She did embrace me tightly, as soon as she came in the door.

"Gil… this is too much. You shouldn't have—"

I place a gentle finger to her mouth, to silence her, and our eyes find each other. The finger gently runs over those incredibly soft lips and trembles, but I try to keep my head on. "It isn't too much. Come sit down."

I pull the chair out for her and she slips into it.

After losing Joshua, I had lost a lot of myself. So when it came to women, once I noticed them again, I had been awkward, bumbling, on the rare dates I had been on. Sara seemed to erase that. It seemed only natural that I should touch her, run my hands over her arms, guide her gently by the small of her back to the table, scoot her in once she's seated, and let my fingertips trail delicately over the nape of her neck as I move into the kitchen, bringing out the meal I had prepared: Homemade ravioli, stuffed with manicotti, and covered in a rich gorgonzola sauce, a few mushrooms and artichokes slipped in for variety. Her eyes lit up as I set it on her little table and seated myself beside her.

"This looks amazing… you didn't make this, did you?"

I chuckle, now pouring wine into each of our glasses. "I did a lot of the cooking, at home, after my dad died. My mom had always worked, but she had to go to working full-time, after that… so I would have dinner ready when she got home. At first it was… grilled cheese, soup from a can, you know? But as I got older, I got better."

She smiles endearingly, and her low voice is gentle. I find myself wondering if her afterglow sounds like that. "When did he die?"

I feel a slight twinge, but I meet her eyes. "I was nine. I… I think it was heat stroke. It had been a hot day, and he came in and lay down on the couch to take a nap, while I was watching television… I guess it could have been something else too—stroke, heart attack, aneurism… I don't know. They wouldn't tell me, at the time, and my mom, she… she fell apart, for a while. When she was finally better, I was afraid to bring him up to ask."

She takes a drink, as I slowly fill our individual plates and sit again. "Did you like your dad?"

I take a bite. "Yeah, I really did. He was a botanist, so I think he's the reason I liked science… and bugs. I spent a lot of time in the greenhouse, with him."

She smiles softly, and takes a bite too. I'm watching her, nervous about my cooking, though I normally wouldn't be. She closes her eyes sensually and puckers her lips slightly, as she chews, and then they flutter open, to look at me. "Gil… this, this is amazing."

I grin. "Don't be fooled, I made my very best recipe. It can only get worse from here…"

She smiles, taking another sensual bite, as if heaven is in her mouth. It just might be… I think to myself, and have to distract myself from that train of thought. It'll only get me in trouble… "Worse than this might still be the best I've ever had." She smiles coyly, eyes training on me again. "If you keep cooking, I might have to come up with a few incentives to get you stay…"

My mouth feels dry, and I'm no longer able to distract myself. "Oh? I'd be glad to keep cooking, stick around for a while… if the incentives are enticing enough."

I jump about a foot in the air when I feel her soft toes under my pant leg, sliding up my calf. She giggles at my surprise, letting the foot brush my thigh before removing it. "You wouldn't be disappointed."

I take a deep breath, to steady myself, and she giggles softly again. "You, apparently, are quite the tease, Miss Sidle…"

She takes another bite, and then licks her lips softly. I practically groan out loud at the sight of her tongue, but I know that she knows what she's doing to me, and I contain it, managing to look politely disinterested. "I'm only a tease if I don't have any intention of following through…"

My eyes shoot up to hers, and it is with concentrated effort that I take a drink of wine and still my voice. "I, uh… I don't really think you're old enough to be talking like that."

She laughs. "Are you telling me to stop?" She spears an artichoke with a ravioli and pops it into her mouth. It is with surprise that I realize she's cleared her plate, while mine is half-full. I grin, placing another scoop on her plate.

"I'm telling you that you're playing with fire…"

She giggles, and we finish our meal quickly—despite her foot sliding up my pant leg once more. I stand and clear the dishes away, putting them in her dishwasher and starting the load—I don't want her to have to do any clean up from the night. I jump when I feel her behind me. He giggles come softly again, as I turn, and I feel the urge to stifle them with my lips. My hands find her hips, even in the dark of the kitchen, and she moves a little closer to me.

"So, Dr. Grissom," she whispers seductively, "what was your plan for the rest of the evening…?"

My hands tighten on her waist. "Well, I thought we could take a walk on the beach… or spend the evening in, watching a movie or…" She moved closer to me again, and my words die on my lips. I swallow hard, and she smiles in the darkness.

"You're nervous, Gil… why?"

I take a deep breath. "I, uh… I want you… so badly, but… but I sincerely want to wait. I… god, you just… you love to test my self control, don't you?"

She smiles again, and presses her body against mine. I tremble, and her head comes down to lie on my chest. "Yes, I do. …Why… Why do you want to wait?"

"I, uh… I've never slept with anyone that I… cared about… after three days. I always waited… three, four weeks, if not more. I… Sara, I don't just… want to sleep with you, I… you've just taken me so completely off guard, here. I care about you, and I respect you, and I… want to do right by you… but I don't think I've ever felt so passionate about a woman in my entire life."

She hugs me tighter. "Well, I mean… you don't have to do anything like that, tonight. You could… just hold me, talk to me, fall asleep with me…?"

I feel butterflies in my stomach and warmth spreading from my center to my extremities. I nod against the top of her head, letting my arms wrap tightly around her. "I would love to."

We hold each other for a moment, and then she slips from me, taking my hand in hers, and leading me back to her bedroom—the only room in her apartment I have not yet been in. She turns on the light, and glances at me. "I, uh… I have some sweats you could wear… if you wanted."

I half-smile, taking in the neat bedroom—a purple bedspread over cream-colored sheets, books on the nightstands, a full-length mirror in the corner, beside her dark-stained dresser. "I doubt they'd fit me…"

"I buy them big; I don't like feeling constricted in my pajamas…" She moves to the dresser and pulls out a pair of gray sweat pants, with the word 'Harvard' printed vertically down the left calf, and a large white t-shirt. I can't help but grin as she hands them to me.

"Do you… sleep in these?"

She blushes, softly. "When it's cold, or it rains… I had a pair just like them in Boston, I wore them all winter… but they were so torn up I had to order another pair… I, uh… I'm gonna go get the candles and the wine… if that's okay. …So you can change."

She leaves and I change quickly, folding my clothes neatly and setting them off to the side. She knocks softly, and then swings the door open, the bottle of wine and our two emptied glasses in tow. She sets them on the nightstand, and leaves to get candles—I help her, and then step outside the room, my back to the open door, so she can change too.

I hear the lights flicker off, and I turn around—she's in a tank top and loose-fitting black shorts. It's the first time I've seen so much of her skin, and I realize after a moment that my mouth is open. I quickly close it, and she smiles. She moves around to the far side of the bed, and slips under the covers, and I move without really thinking, to slide in the side closest to me—the sheets are soft, the mattress plush; she cares about comfort.

Immediately she's curled against my side, her head on my chest, and I look down at her.

The light flickers across her—her hair falling into a messy yet beautiful cascade over her shoulders and mine—bringing out the subtle red tones in her hair and throwing the lines of her face and the curves of her body into striking shadow and adorning glow. The sight of her literally takes me breath away, and I take a moment to recapture it before daring to speak.

"You're… so beautiful, Sara, in the candlelight…"

She smiles softly, looking up at me. "…Tell me something… about you. Something nobody who knows you now would know…"

I think, running over who those people would be, anyway. My mom… and anyone in Vegas—Jim knew about Amber and Laura, and I wasn't sure how to bring that up anyway. Becky had known almost everything, but I didn't suppose she counted anymore, did she? I think of something, and hesitate briefly, but continue. It feels like I could tell this woman anything.

"…I didn't lose my virginity until I was twenty-three years old…"

Her eyes shoot up to mine in surprise—not judgment, just honest confusion. "…really? Why… why not?"

"I didn't fall in love until then…" I know my face is red, and I'm thankful for the darkness, but she doesn't seem put off by this information. She leans up, brushing those gorgeous lips gently across my cheek and then again in the crook of my neck, her hair tickling the whole way. Goose bumps trail down my arms.

"You really are an amazing man, Gil."

I don't expect this—I turn my head, and my face is mere inches from where she had rested hers after the contact with my neck. I breathe in deeply. "You're the amazing one, Sara… I…" I'm at a loss for words, to describe how thoroughly she enthralls me, and I bring a hand up to rest on her cheek, letting my thumb caress her softly, before leaning down and kissing her gently.

I don't even remember deciding to do it—I just remember how good and right it felt.

She draws breath in sharply, pressing her lips into the kiss, and my own breath catches in my throat again. It's soft, gentle, but somehow still communicates longing and desire and devotion. When we pull apart, we're both smiling, a little breathless, staring into each other's eyes. Hers are precisely the shade of molten milk-chocolate, and deep and seductive, in this moment.

A strange look crosses her face, and I see it immediately. "…What is it?"

"I… Gil, my… first time… I was sixteen."

I smile softly, understanding the change in her face and voice now. "Sara, I don't care… you… you didn't have to tell me that, but… I would never judge you. If you were ready, at sixteen, you were ready."

A smile breaks across her beautiful face, filling me up with warmth, and I'm stealing her lips again, my hands running gently through her hair. Again, we're breathless as we break the kiss. She curls closer to me, burying her head in my chest. We sit this way, contented, for a few blissful moments, and then her voice comes softly again.

"So, since we're sharing…"

My eyes narrow, and my arm around her gently strokes her back. "Yes…?"

"How, uh… how many people… have you been with?"

"…Eight." She nods, slowly, and I'm forced to ask her, because she doesn't volunteer the information. "How many… have you been with?"

She swallows hard, "Three. … Well… No, just… just three."

I hesitate, uncertain if I should laugh at her confusion, and uncertain if I can ask. "You're… not sure?"

She stammers, but manages to get out, "Uh… well… you see… how… how would you… define, 'been with'?"

I make a face, trying not to mirror her discomfort. "Well, to be… technical, I suppose… two consensual adults—well, maybe not adults, I guess—" I amend, nudging her and feeling relieved when she smiles at my joke. It's good to see the smile again. "Who… have sex. Like… full penetration, sex, not… uh," I cough, uncomfortably, "fellatio or… uh… cunnilingus. …I …I'm tempted to include… finishing… the act, but… I think I'll leave that out… of my definition."

She giggles at my discomfort, but still responds softly. "Three then. Just three."

I chuckle. "Why the confusion?"

She bites her bottom lip. I kiss her forehead softly. "I won't ask about it, okay honey?"

The endearment slips from my lips unconsciously, and I feel her tense as she hears it—I worry, but then I feel her lips on mine again. They're more passionate, and my hands tangle in her silky chocolate strands instead of just running through them gently, and I feel her body pressing against mine. We're panting this time, as we part, our foreheads pressed together, as she looks into my eyes. "…I can't tell you how good that sounded."

I grin. "Apparently I have a secret weapon… honey."

Her eyes flash and her lips are on mine again, and I don't know whether she's playing along or whether it actually affects her that way, but I can't bring myself to care. One hand holds the back of her neck, gently, hair still between my fingers, while the other is sliding gently over the small of her back, just under the tank top, pulling her closer to me.

She moans softly as my fingers slip under the fabric, and I tremble, kissing her more forcefully, gripping her more tightly, and sliding my tongue into her mouth, without thinking, in a sudden moment of unrestrained passion. She giggles and pulls away, her breathing heavy. "Apparently I have one too…"

I feel my face heat, and she grins, resting her lips against mine softly—we both want to deepen it, but we hold back, and she settles against my chest again. "…Gil?"

I nod against the top of her head, gently stroking her back—over her tank top—again. "Yes?"

"You said… eight? And… in the kitchen, you said you'd always waited weeks when it was… someone you cared about." I nod again, and she continues. "Have you… were any of them… one-night stands?"

I sigh softly, sadly. "…half of them."

Her eyebrows raise, and I feel ashamed of myself. I hadn't meant for half of my intimate relationships to be meaningless—I had _always_ preferred making love to having sex—and I hope she doesn't think the worst of me, because of it. To my surprise, she sighs in relief. My eyes narrow. "You're… relieved?"

She laughs a little, seeming embarrassed. "Well, I… one of mine was, and… it bothered me, a lot. But I put it behind me, you know, until… you came along. And then I felt like… you're this amazing man who didn't have sex until he was twenty-three because he wasn't in love and… I didn't want to hide it, but I was afraid…"

I squeeze her tightly. "Sara, honey, you need to stop worrying. I'm not going to change how I feel about you, no matter what you tell me you've done …okay? I promise."

She nods, snuggling closer again, and we have another moment of silence, before she continues. "Who… who were they? The one-night stands."

I take a deep breath. "One was in L.A. The girl who had been… my first… we'd broken up, and I'd seen her, in a bar… with someone else. I, uh… I got ridiculously intoxicated, and took home the first long-legged brunette who'd have me. …Not really something I'm proud of."

She smiles softly, and I feel one of her long legs slip over mine, settling between them. "You like long-legged brunettes, huh?"

I laugh. "I do, yes…"

"…the others?"

"One in Chicago… we were in a class together, she asked me to help her study for a test. I came over, and she had her textbooks and notebooks spread out on the bed… So that's where we started to study. I, uh… I bought her a new textbook, because we'd ripped so many pages from the one that had been beneath us… I asked her, afterward, if I could take her to dinner… She told me no." I shrug, softly, and feel her shaking against me. I'm afraid she's crying until sound finally escapes her—she's laughing at me. Indignantly, "It's not funny!"

She laughs out loud. "Poor Gil, she totally used you…" She giggles, "I'm sorry… it shouldn't be funny but… you seem so indignant, still, that she wouldn't have dinner with you after you…" She's rolling around on the bed laughing now, and I can't help but smile, imagining her rolling there in pleasure rather than amusement. I shake the thoughts away again.

I kiss her, deeply, to stop the laughter, and she stills, returning the kiss fervently. When I pull away, I see the hunger in her eyes—the reluctance to let me go. I grin. "Who was yours?"

Her eyebrows shoot up, and I realize this is one of _those_ questions. But she answers me. Abruptly.

"Ken Fuller."

I sense that no follow up is allowed. Instead, I dip my head down again and kiss her until she's breathless, and then wrap my arms around her.

"Sleep, my sweet Sara, or I promise you, we'll be up all night…"


	32. Love

Disclaimer: They're not mine... but see how good it could be if I got them all the time?

A/N: So, I know this is a much-awaited chapter for a some of you, and a moment others wished wouldn't come... or, at least, not yet. I just want to say that I thought very hard about when and how this should happen, and this is the way I feel the story needs to be told.

Also, this will be my last update until either late Sunday or Monday... we're going to see my parents for my mom's birthday, and thus I will be away from the computer. I will be able to check reviews however, and they would be greatly appreciated, especially for this chapter. I put a lot of effort into making it right, and it's one of my favorites... so please let me know what you think. Enjoy!

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Chapter 4: Love

The week passed fairly uneventfully—but it was the happiest I think I've been in my whole life—happier than when I was with Tyler, or Michael, or when I discovered that forensics was my calling. It was the simple things, the little things, that made every day a miracle stolen from a life that couldn't possibly be mine.

Gil had cancelled his reservations at the second hotel—his suitcase remained stubbornly in my guest bedroom, because he'd insisted that he spent the night in my bedroom by my invitation, rather than by his right. We slipped into an easy routine—like our whole lives we'd just been waiting to organize our days around each other, and by now knew perfectly how such a thing should work. His lectures were usually finished by mid-day, so he'd drive back to the apartment alone and have dinner on the table by the time I made it home.

On the rare occasion that he stayed late or I finished early, we would drive together, and I'd sit on the counter in the kitchen while he cooked, talking about anything and everything—occasionally pausing as he lifted a spoon to my mouth for a quick taste and an opinion. More salt? Too sweet? _…As if it was ever anything but perfect. _

I had raised protests about him cooking every night, at first, but upon tasting the food, they died quickly on my lips. He had been modest—the pasta was amazing, but so was everything else. I lean back in my chair, rubbing my stomach after a particularly filling meal of home-made sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, and lo-mien, and glare at him.

"If you keep cooking like this, I'm going to have to move up a size… you don't want a fat girlfriend, do you?" I tease. He grins at me.

"You'd have to move up several sizes to be fat, honey, and I would still desire you more fervently than any other woman on the planet." He hadn't commented on me referring to myself as his girlfriend, but it hadn't seemed to faze him either… I grin.

"Always the charmer..."

He leans over, kissing me quickly, his voice all business, "Now, we're _actually_ going to make it to the beach tonight. It's gotten chilly, so maybe you should change into jeans…"

I glance down at my legs, bare from the knees down, in one of the few skirts I own. I grin, getting up and carrying my plate and glass to the kitchen, with him following closely behind me. "…Why the beach, Gil? I don't think you can mix me a drink there…"

He snickers at my attempt to sound innocent. "Is your mind always in the gutter, Miss Sidle? For most of us, beaches are romantic places to walk under the stars, rather than to disrobe and copulate."

I giggle, stopping abruptly so that he walks into me from behind. I lean back against him. "If I keep the skirt on, disrobing won't really be necessary…"

He groans softly against my hair but pulls back from me and moves around to the dishwasher, placing first his dishes inside and then taking mine from me and doing the same. He uses his business voice again. "Go change, Sara, and I'll put away the leftovers…"

I pout playfully, and he chuckles at my retreating back as I move into the bedroom. No sooner are the jeans are around my hips and I'm hanging up the skirt, than I hear a clap of thunder. I rest the hanger in the closet, and move to my window, peering out as bright light streaks across the sky and another rumbling clap fills the room. I jump when I feel Gil's hand on my shoulder, and turn quickly. He smiles at my reaction.

"Not afraid of storms, are you?"

I shake my head. "No, I… I love storms." I move closer and his arms circle my waist easily. I had always enjoyed them—my brother did too. We used to sit by my bedroom window and watch the sky flash brilliantly, and jump and giggle when the thunder boomed around us. He was a lot older, so maybe he had just been indulging me… but those were some of the best memories I had with him.

…And once again, a storm had given me the opportunity for a good memory… I grin. "So much for your beach idea…"

He shakes his head, sighing deeply, but it's playful. "I guess we'll just have to spend another night in bed… shame."

I grin. We had slept together—_actually slept_—every night since the first time he cooked for me… curled in each others' arms, talking and laughing and kissing freely—but nothing else. It seemed there was no room for middle ground between us—the minute the kissing became heated we had to break apart… we both knew that if we let ourselves go, we would never stop.

…Needless to say, however, my hormones were raging. I hadn't been with anyone in… god, four years…. And there had been an inordinate amount of foreplay to get no release. Even just looking at the man caused frustration… imagine curling up against his perfect, beautiful body, night after night, and getting _nothing_.

And more than that—I wanted all of him. I wanted him to be mine, and to be his, completely… to share every inch of myself with him. I wanted to feel like there was nothing in the whole world between us. …So I took initiative.

"Well, if you don't want to spend the night that way…" I pull back from him, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping the jeans, and sliding them back down my legs. "You're welcome to do something else." I step out of them, and turn my back to him as I pick them up, to make sure he has a chance to fully appreciate the lacy underwear, boy bottoms in basic shape, but high cut in the back—very high cut. I turn around, folding the jeans. "But, uh… I think I'm gonna crawl into bed."

I look at him intently. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, his eyes have closed, and his face is lined in concentration. I slowly pull my shirt over my head, watching to see if his eyes will open at the sound of my movements—I'm not disappointed. He groans out loud at the sight of the matching red lace bra, and his hands find my hips again, almost possessively, though he looks as surprised at their presence there as I do.

"Sara…" It's a warning, more than anything… I ignore it.

I step forward, just barely letting my body brush against his, and then back, out of his grasp. "Like I said, I'm going to crawl into bed… and you can join me, or not." I grin, and climb up onto my bed on all fours, literally crawling from the foot to the head, turning around slowly, and sliding under the covers. He looks like he's going to pass out from the amount of effort it's taking him to remain rooted to the spot.

And then, he gives in. He groans again softly, lets his shoulders slump off the tension and restraint, turning off the lights and quickly removing all but his boxers and a t-shirt, and slips into the bed next to me.

"For the record, this is all your fault…" His hands find my hips again, and he pulls me roughly—urgently—against him, capturing my lips in a searing kiss. My whole body heats, tendrils of fire seeping through each vein, as I kiss him back—I have never ever needed anyone so badly in my life.

His tongue teases my bottom lip and then his teeth capture it—his hands slide up my sides, taking a moment to explore my breasts and then moving around behind me to remove the offensive red lace. His mouth breaks from mine, and I'm gasping and breathless as it finds instead what his hands neglected. He's biting each nipple gently, in turns, and sending thrill after thrill down my spine.

I know that I'm moaning out loud—that my head is tilted back and my eyes are closed—and I know that my moans drive him crazy the way his terms of endearment do to me. His hands and mouth are frenzied and I feel how badly he wants me between my thighs. I grind up against him and he moans into my breast, his hips jerking up hard in response. My whole body is nothing but a delicious burning and my hands claw at his back, tearing the t-shirt over his head and capturing his lips with mine again.

But something is wrong… his hands slow, gripping me tightly, and his mouth separates from mine. Our eyes meet, and then he's pulling away from me, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, running his hands through his hair.

I sit up slowly, disoriented, an unwelcome pout drawing my lips down, wondering what I did wrong… He flinches when I place a hand on his shoulder, and I draw it back, as if burned, but he turns and snatches it from the air, mid-retreat, and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm gently.

I tilt my head at the gesture—no one has ever kissed my palm before—just the back of my hand. It feels… more intimate, more personal, somehow, and I find myself trembling at the action. His eyes catch mine, and they're still clouded with desire, but they're remorseful also. I don't understand.

"Sara… you… you deserve better than this. Even… even if you're okay with it, even if you want it as much as I do…" He closes his eyes, as if steeling his resolve.

"Our first time should be slow and deliberate and sensual... not rushed and urgent and… and the result of me apparently not having enough self-control to turn down red lace." He says, angry at himself. "…I, uh… I think I'm gonna go get some air." He kisses my palm again, more fervently than the first time, and walks out of my bedroom. I sigh deeply, trying to wrap my head around this.

Granted my sexual experience was not vast—out of all my consensual encounters, I had only really had three 'first times.' One was overrated, boring even, another marvelous and sensory, and the first… pleasurable, but new—the excitement probably more responsible for the resulting orgasm than the boy himself.

Ken had not wanted to wait, obviously, and Michael had wanted to wait because I wasn't ready… If I had been, we probably would have made love in the first week. Tyler had made me wait… a long time. But for at least half of it, neither of us had been ready for sex, and then it had been… he had been afraid I was leaving. He wanted to be sure I was going to stay, that we'd be okay, before we made love.

Gil was the only man I'd ever been involved with who cared about waiting—even if I was ready and willing and… and wanted it, as much as he did—simply because he thought it was what I deserved, as a woman he cared about. …I slipped from the bed, pulling on a tank top and pajama shorts, and grabbed his t-shirt and the Harvard pants he'd been sleeping in every night, despite now having his own pajamas here, making my way out to the living room.

The balcony of my apartment was strange—something with the way the plumbing had been installed meant that my bathroom was placed differently in this unit than the others, which threw off the layout of the living room. My balcony, therefore, opened to a dark area of the building, with no windows close by, and a heavy tree cover. The privacy of it had been one of the main reasons I'd chosen this place.

He stood out there, in only his boxers, bent over the railing with his head in his hands. It was raining out, and he had to be freezing.

I sigh, dropping his clothes to the couch, sliding the door open behind him and wrapping my arms around him from behind. "I'm sorry, Gil… I won't… I won't try to tempt you anymore. Come inside, it's freezing out here."

He turns around, wrapping his arms around me—he's soaking wet, but I hug him tightly, because he seems like he needs it. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sara. If you don't want me to stay anymore, I can… I can find a hotel room for the night, or stay in the guest room…"

I kiss him gently, to quiet him, my head already shaking. "I want you to stay right here, with me. I know why you want to wait, and… and it's really, really sweet. I'll try not to let my hormones make me forget again, okay?"

He holds me tightly, rubbing my back, the wet fabric of the tank top slippery under his fingertips. "It's not even… it's not about waiting, so much anymore. Everything has been faster with you—I've never looked into someone's eyes and known that I was going to be with them, you know? I just… I want it to happen the _right_ way…"

I turn my head up, to look into his eyes—they're such a dark, deep blue, out in the night and the storm. Rain falls down his face carelessly, and I'm overwhelmed by how beautiful the storm makes his stoic features. I find myself leaning into him unconsciously, and our lips meeting gently—as if in awe of the moment and the person we're sharing it with.

It slowly, sensually deepens, making me feel lightheaded and disoriented and… completely lost. Before I'm even aware he's broken the kiss, he's lifted me up into his arms, an arm around my back and another in the crook of my knees, and then he's kissing me again, into breathless, dizzying senselessness.

I hadn't realized how cold I was until we move back into the living room and the warmth. He carries me slowly and gently, our lips never parting, back into the bedroom, and lays me down in bed with the reverence of one placing their god on an alter to be worshipped.

And he does worship me—he slides me out of my wet clothes, reverently tucking the blankets around me while he slips himself out of his wet boxers. He sneaks beneath the blankets and lies gently on top of me—far enough down that I can't feel his length between my legs, though I want to.

His kisses are slow, soft, and they obliterate my senses once again—until I'm reeling with them, uncertain of even my own name. My hands trail lazily over his back and into his hair, and the kisses deepen—they aren't faster, or any more urgent, just deep and full and purposeful. His hands slide up my sides, brushing against the sides of my breasts, peeking out from between our bodies, and then up to cradle my face between them and wrap into my wet curls.

I moan softly, gently, and push my body closer to his—again, not from urgent need, but from a deep longing to be as close as possible to him—I want every inch of our bodies to touch, and be connected. I want to bury myself inside of his chest, so that I can be a part of him forever.

His lips move to my neck, and though they keep the same tone and tempo, my breathing becomes ragged. His body is on one side of me now, supported on his elbow, and his free hand draws delicate trails with his fingertips over my chest and stomach, my hips and down my thighs, brushing tantalizingly close to their apex. My breath hitches, and my senses reel, and I can feel his lips form a smile as they move across my skin, down my body, covering every inch in gentle goose bumps.

The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing, the sound of rain on the windows,—the occasional clap of thunder, muted now, as the storm is farther away—and the gentle pucker of his lips as they explore every inch of me. His fingers brush over my thighs again, teasing me—and he bites down gently on a nipple as he slides a finger inside me.

Another low moan escapes my lips, loud in the quiet, but somehow seeming to fit into the music of the moment—the rain and the breathing and the movement of his adorations. His lips continue—trailing across my stomach, back up, between my breasts, up to my neck and across my shoulders—always gentle, loving, and caressing, as his finger becomes two and he starts a slow rhythm inside me.

The rain picks up outside, as if to match my increased breathing—his more purposeful movements—and his whispery voice intones lyrics to our very own love song—a poet's serenade, as my body moves against him, my mind reeling from the sensations, his lips caressing their way back down my taut and delirious body.

_"If questioning could make us wise, no eyes would ever gaze in eyes;…"_ his pace increases, his thumb pressing gently, teasingly, against the bundle of nerves there and I whisper a breathless "Oh god" into the stillness.

_"…If all our tale were told in speech, no mouth would wander each to each..." _His lips capture mine, quickly, and again his fingers move more rapidly within me, my hips rising in time.

Against my neck, _"Were spirits free from mortal mesh…"_

Kisses trail to the center of my chest again,_"…and love not bound in hearts of flesh,"_

He kisses above my heart, slowly and deliberately, increasing the pressure of his thumb at the same time, causing me to release a shuddering gasp._ "…no aching breasts would yearn to meet, and find their ecstasy complete…"_

I'm slowly coming undone, my mind and body both dizzy with his attentions, my hips rising against him, trying to force him to drive me over, but he isn't finished, and he doesn't give an inch.

_"For who is there that loves and knows…"_ He moves his body directly over the top of mine again.

_"…the secret powers by which he grows?"_ He settles himself against me, moaning gently himself at the feel of me, and yet still delaying his entrance.

_"Were knowledge all, what were our need…"_ He slides slowly against me and my shuddering body rocks up to meet him, desperate now to feel him within me. _"…to thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?"_

He makes certain that his eyes are locked on mine as he gently moves against me again, causing me to moan and tremble with anticipation, my hands digging into the sheets at my sides._"Then seek not, sweet, the "if" and "why"…"_

Keeping my gaze, he positions himself against me, _"I love you now, until I die:…"_ finally, finally, pushes inside me slowly, our moans mixing together with the sound of the rain, and gasps out huskily, _"For I must love, because I live…"_

He moves slowly, his words ragged, whispered in time with his movements, _"…and life, in me, is what you give."_

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"Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her" by Christopher Brennan


	33. Home

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, etc.

A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews, they made my weekend! :) Aaaand, here's two more chapters for my wonderful readers... some sweetness, some smut, and a little bit of storyline progression... Don't worry, chapters 7 and 8 are _way_ more storyline... although, ...I think there may still be some smut. teehee.

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Chapter 5: Home

The second week of the convention was more interesting by far—mock crime scenes and experiments, competitions to determine directionality or motive or, because of me, time of death based on insect presence and state of decomposition. We left early Monday morning, stopped at the Berkeley office to pick up her diploma on the way there, and I held her hand as we moved from activity to activity, playfully competing.

I had more experience, but her logic was infallible and precise—I had the initial advantage, but by the end of everything except the insects, we were neck and neck. She seemed to be striving to impress me, and though I found the effort silly but endearing, I had to admit that it worked. I _was_ impressed. Impressed and enamored and head-over-heels for her brilliant mind.

She kissed me softly, every now and then, and not once did I feel I was acting in a way that was unethical or wrong—not once did I think about how young she looked on my arm, or the surprised expressions her colleagues gave when she introduced me. I was happier than I had been in a lifetime, it seemed, and my only negative thoughts were directed towards the end of the week. So, when she excused herself to the ladies' room before us leaving on Wednesday, I stepped outside and made a call to Jim.

"Brass."

"Hey, Jim, it's Gil."

"Hey, how's the conference?"

"Good, good. Listen, uh… I know this isn't really a good time, and that I've already taken two weeks off, but… I have a lot of vacation time stored up. Would it be possible to take some of it?"

"…How much time were you thinking?"

"A week. Or… two. If I could get it."

He heaves a heavy sigh. "It's really short notice, Gil. I had you helping me sort applications, for George and Kathy's replacements. We've probably got near a thousand to sort through. Is it an emergency? Something with your… daughter?"

"No, no… nothing like that. Uh… listen, if I took the paperwork and worked on it all week, could I at least get the one week? I'd do all the office work, just… not in the office. Would that work?"

He chuckles softly. "Did you meet somebody, Gil?"

I feel myself blushing, but I force my voice to remain impassive. "I just need a week at home. So if you send the paperwork to my house next… Monday… I'll have a short list of people to interview by the following Monday, when I return to work."

"Fine, but only because you haven't taken any real vacation time in years… I sincerely hope you're getting laid, Gil." I'm drawing in a breath to speak as he says this, and I gag on the air in my lungs, sending me into a coughing fit, but he just laughs. "I'll take that as a yes. Have a good week, Gil." And he hangs up.

I pocket the phone as Sara comes out the doors, looking around for me. "There you are. I was looking all over for you."

"Sorry, honey, just grabbing some air… You ready?" She nods, and we link our fingers together. "So, uh… when do you start at the lab, here? Monday?"

She nods again. "They really don't need me for, like, another three weeks, so I don't know how many hours I'll have… they've already hired my replacement lab rat, but the person I'm replacing isn't done for a while…"

"So, uh… you could probably get another week off, then… if you wanted. It wouldn't be too hard…"

She makes a confused face. "I guess so… I'd have to call, but I'm sure it wouldn't make much of a difference. Why?"

I'm nervous, but excitedly so. "…Come to Vegas, with me, for a week. Come stay with me."

Her eyebrows shoot up, but she's smiling. "…Really? I mean, you'd want me to… to come _home_ with you?"

I wrap an arm around her, squeezing her to my side. "Of course I would, Sara. I was going to stay here, for a week, but the most I could get my boss to agree to was working at home, for a week… paperwork." I add, seeing her look of confusion. She nods in understanding, and then bites her bottom lip.

"I, uh… I don't have a lot of savings, Gil. I don't think I could pay for the plane tickets. I just bought my car and…"

"I'll pay for them."

"…Gil…"

"Really, the conference paid for my tickets here… so it was like a free trip. And you saved me a tremendous amount of money in hotel costs. Let me pay for it. _…Come home with me_."

She smiles hesitantly, hopefully, and then nods excitedly. "Okay… I'll… I'll call the lab, see if I can get some time off."

I pull her into a kiss, deep and demanding, and she's blushing when she pulls away from me, glancing around like she's worried someone saw—as if we'd been making love instead of just kissing. I smile softly—how strange that a girl who worked so hard to get me into her bed could seem so shy now…

I made us steaks that night, while she called her boss—just before five o'clock—and pushed back her start date a week. I called the airline, and managed to get her a seat next to me on the plane—thankfully it was a fairly empty flight so far—and we curled up in bed early, our bodies molding together immediately. Everything about this woman felt perfect, and I simply couldn't get enough of her.

I was scheduled to fly out Saturday evening—we packed ourselves up, Friday night, returned my rental car, and spent Saturday afternoon at a beach in San Francisco. We swam, kissed in the surf, sun bathed, and had a picnic lunch on the sand. She even asked a tourist couple to take a picture of us with my camera, swim-suit clad, arms around each other, with the golden gate bridge behind us.

It was bitter sweet and exciting, when we packed up our belongings and changed into dry clothes in the somewhat-questionable park bathrooms just off the beach. We were leaving the time and place we had met—when everything between us had come together and felt so right and beautiful… it almost felt, to me at least, that we were now stepping into the real world… and I worried that our whirlwind romance could survive outside of it's protective cocoon.

But she was also coming to my home—entering my world and my life, in the way I had entered hers. I felt like it was a step forward—a sign of progress beyond a two-week relationship and the inevitable distance that would come between us.

We took her car to the airport, and I paid for the week in advance—I didn't want her to be put out by the trip in any way. We found a pizza place in the airport, and ate in a companionable silence, and then boarded the plane. As soon as we sat down, she broke the silence, as if the pressure to do so had been building for some time.

"So… tell me all about Las Vegas!"

I smile softly at her barely repressed excitement.

"Well, the strip is all you'd expect it to be—lights, drinking, gambling, sex… but the rest of the city is just that, a city. …People there are a little jaded, because of the strip, you know, but otherwise it's just like any other place..." I add as an afterthought, "I like the lights."

She smiles. "I wouldn't have guessed that about you."

I slide my hand into hers, linking our fingers tightly. "I suppose you're too cynical to like the lights?"

She laughs. "Something like that."

"…I'll show you how nice they can be. You just need… the proper perspective."

She grins, and lays her head on my shoulder. "You don't mind if I sleep, do you? I think the beach wore me out today… I want to be awake when we get there!"

I wrap an arm around her. "Of course not, sleep." I kiss her forehead softly. "I'll wake you before we get there."

And despite her fidgeting in her seat from the nervous excitement, she's asleep within minutes, and I spend most of the flight with my eyes closed and my head tilted back, listening to her soft breathing. I nudge her when we begin to circle McCarran, and her eyes flutter open so sweetly that I'm tempted to kiss each of her lids. I restrain myself, brushing her hair gently back from her forehead instead.

The plane lands, and she's practically bouncing in her seat with anticipation. We slide out of our row, I take both carry-on's down and carry them out, despite her protests, and we're in a cab within twenty minutes. She seems almost nervous, and squeezes my hand as I give the address.

"Sunset Drive… that sounds nice." Her voice is almost wistful. Dreamy, even.

I smile at her, sensing that we both feel our relationship is going somewhere—that sooner or later, she might be living in Vegas… might call the townhouse home. I feel a nervous rush at the thought too—but it's pleasant. After only two weeks, I feel like I can't imagine spending a day without her… I don't know what I'm going to do when she has to go back to San Francisco.

We pull up to the townhouse, and she smiles softly, peering out the window, as I pay the cab driver and collect the luggage. She has a strange expression on her face—something I can't seem to place or define, but it's childlike in nature, happy, but with a touch of fear behind it—as I lead her up to the door. I pick the key out of several on my key ring and hand it to her. "You can do the honors…"

She takes it from me almost reverently, her hands trembling, and opens the door, stepping inside. I flick the lights on and she slips out of her shoes, moving around to look inside. There's a small living area right inside the door, her eyes flicker over the lamps and the couch before continuing down the stairs, to the kitchen and the cases of my butterfly collection. She stops there, peering in and smiling, and then turns and moves through the kitchen, opening the fridge, running her fingers over the counter top, and then slipping into the hallway behind it.

I grab the carry-on's, and follow her trek, stopping to see her peek into the smallest bedroom—the office—and smile at the rows of bookshelves and the messy desk area. Then she's peering into the small guest bathroom, and the guest bedroom—never used—and finally the master. She hesitates in the doorway, glancing back at me, as if she needs permission. I move up behind her, kissing the gentle curve where her neck becomes her shoulder. "What's mine is yours, sweet."

She smiles, and steps into the room. I remain in the doorway, watching as she moves around—fingers running along the edge of the dresser, the foot board, the comforter, and then peeking into the master bathroom. I set the bags down on the bed, and look at her, my eyebrows raised. "Done investigating, Miss Sidle?"

She grins sheepishly, coming back to me from the doorway to the bathroom. "Just seeing who Dr. Grissom is in private…"

I pull her close against me and kiss her softly. "You know who I am in private, Sara… you know all of me." I press my lips to hers again, to emphasize the point. She moans softly into my mouth and I feel fire shoot down my spine.

It is with concerted effort that I pull from her, my eyes already clouded with my desire. "Did you… uh… want to see some of Vegas tonight? …Freemont Street… New York, New York… or… _spend the night in_?"

I try not to be obvious about my preferences in the matter, but I'm certain my voice betrays me. Her eyes flash at my words and she grins, grinding her hips gently against mine and making me draw in a surprised gasp.

"Show me some of Vegas… I promise I'll… take care of this problem…" Her fingers ran over the front of my jeans lightly—teasingly—and my whole body tenses. "…when we get back…" I groan and she giggles, dragging me back out of the bedroom, and I wonder how I spent over forty years without this woman—without this _feeling_. You couldn't miss what you'd never had but… Now that I _had_ had it—had known what it could really feel like—how could I ever go back to living without her?


	34. The Townhouse

Disclaimer: I'm just playing with them...

A/N: Please review!

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Chapter 6: The Townhouse

We spent Saturday night and all day Sunday going back and forth between sightseeing and making love in his bedroom—his bed was bigger than mine, and more comfortable, and so even when we weren't making love, it was my favorite place to be in the townhouse.

I didn't call it _his_ townhouse, because for some reason it didn't feel like I was staying in someone else's home… I didn't feel like a guest, I felt like I was walking into a life that had been laid out specifically for me, and all I had to do was decide if I wanted it and it was mine. But I didn't call it _my_ or _our_ townhouse either… just 'the townhouse'.

The townhouse was clean, but cluttered… that seemed to be his general style. He didn't leave plates in the sink or laundry on the floor, but the desk in his office was strewn with papers, the bookshelves completely disorganized. Plates were always put away in cupboards, if not in any consistent order or fashion, and finding ingredients for French Toast the first morning I was there felt like going on a scavenger hunt.

I'm sure it wasn't as good as he could have made, but he was surprised, and happy, and even took seconds, so that reassured me, at least.

Monday, two large file boxes were delivered and he hauled them into his office, spending nearly a half an hour trying to clear some of his papers out of the way so that he had a clear work space on his desk. While he sat in the desk chair, I reclined on the black leather chaise in his office, paging through his copy of Of Mice and Men—still a favorite, even now.

When he was finished clearing his things, he simply placed the boxes on the desk and turned around in his chair, watching me. I pretended not to notice—to be engrossed in the book—and after a moment he moved to the bottom of the chaise, capturing a bare ankle—me being clad in one of his t-shirts and underwear—brushing his thumb over the flower tattoo there, and kissing slowly up from it, keeping his eyes on me.

I pretend not to notice, still scanning the lines of text with my eyes, but no longer taking any of it in. The flush in my cheeks gives me away. He chuckles as he moves to my right leg, kissing his way slowly up again. Goose bumps trail over my body, and yet I stare at the book—forgetting to make my eyes move as if I'm reading, and I feel the smile against his lips as they trail over my thighs.

His hands circle my ankles and tug me down gently, so that I'm lying instead of half-sitting, and his lips find my thighs again. I tremble, and my breathing is heavier, and yet I keep my eyes glued to the book—it would feel wrong to break my ruse now, even if he's seen through it from the beginning.

It's when I feel his hot breath against my underwear and I moan involuntarily, my hips jerking slightly forward before I can restrain them, that he laughs out loud, looking up at my closed eyes, the book still held open above me.

"Okay, Sara… if you're involved in your book, I'll just go start my paperwork…" and in an instant he's back in his chair, his back to me.

I let out a frustrated whine, the book finally falling to the floor, and he laughs again.

"What's wrong Sara? A moment ago you were happily reading…" He turns around in the chair again, sliding off and moving to the edge of the chaise again, and I scooted my body down a little, to be closer to him.

"You're a damn tease is what's wrong…"

"Oh, I don't want to be a tease, honey. Tell me, what do you want me to do?" His voice is like dark velvet—deep and soft and seductive, and I quiver as I feel it against my thighs again.

"Gil…" I whine, and his fingertips trail from my knees to the lace lining the legs of the boy-bottom panties I'm wearing.

His voice is all sugar, but it's taunting too. "Yes, sweet? Anything you want, just tell me, and I'll do it…"

But I'm shy now—I've never been very good at dirty-talking, and it's harder when this dignified, professional, intelligent doctor of a man is listening for it… I stutter. "I, uh… Gil, I… you… _Please…_" I beg him to take mercy on me, but he senses my reluctance, and I think he enjoys it.

"Please what, Sara? I want to give you what you want…" His teeth gently nip my inner thigh. "You just have to ask for it…"

I groan impatiently, my hips pushing up, trying to tell him without words what I want. He stifles another laugh, trying to keep calmly confused and seductive, and I grin despite myself. "You're so mean."

He laughs openly then, slipping his hands up the sides of the boy bottoms and yanking them down and off my legs. I gasp out loud, and he grins, brushing his fingers softly over me. "Mean? How am I mean, my sweet, sweet Sara?"

And then his fingers are inside me, but much, much too slow and soft. My hips lift up in agitation, and he chuckles again. Continuing the torturous rhythm, he speaks—again his hot breath on my thighs doing ridiculous things to my senses. "Tell me what you want Sara. Tell me and I'll do it. What do you want?"

His gentle fingers speed up for a moment, and then slow, and I groan in frustration again, my face bright red, my whole body aching. "Ohhh, god, Gil… please… please…"

"Please what?" he whispers, his fingers speeding up again, and I moan loudly, gasping for breath.

"Please… please stop teasing me… stop… please… put your mouth on me, Gil, make me come, please, I… I can't take it…"

And then his tongue is pressing insistently against me, his fingers rocking hard, and I'm shuddering and moaning and nearing an orgasm faster than I thought I ever had. My muscles clench around his fingers as my climax grips me violently, throwing me over and into an abyss that seems to have no bottom—it goes and goes, and I'm delirious and exhausted when I finally reach the end, my face flushed, hair curling with sweat, my breathing heavy in my chest.

Gil grins brightly, like he's thoroughly proud of himself, and with another chuckle, sets Of Mice and Men on my chest and turns back to his work.

When I regain a little composure, and slip the underwear back up my legs, I move behind him, resting my chin on his shoulder. "What exactly will I be distracting you from, Dr. Grissom, when I exact your much-deserved punishment?"

He grins again, like a little boy at Christmas. "We have a CSI retiring and a CSI transferring, both sometime during the summer, so we're hiring. One of the negative things about being the seventh ranked lab in the country is that positions are in high demand… which means lots of applications to sort through. I'm just figuring out a system, right now, to rule out most of them… we can't interview thousands of applicants."

I bite on my bottom lip, thoughts of revenge pushed from my mind momentarily. I wonder why he hadn't told me they were hiring… maybe he didn't want me in Vegas… maybe I was deluding myself in thinking that it could be 'our' townhouse.

I draw in a deep breath, glancing at the criteria he was carefully writing out on a notepad. Beautiful writing—something about it tugs at my memory, like déjà vu, but it's gone in a moment.

-Graduated from a top school—pref. Ivy League

-Masters degree or two or more years experience at a top lab

He only has two right now, and I tilt my head. "That's not going to narrow your search down very far…"

He smiles. "I know… but I'm reluctant to be too stringent with my criteria. I mean, it's the logical way to evaluate the selection, but… none of that means you're a good CSI, you know? Take Catherine, for instance, the woman I told you about who I work with, with the five year old, Lindsey?

"She was a stripper with a dead-end husband and a newborn. She put herself through night-school, working to pay for school and supporting her husband, who was not consistently employed. She applied to the lab with a bachelor's of science from UNLV and no experience, but she's one of the best I've ever seen. …Under just the two guidelines here, heck, even under just one of them… we never would have met with her."

"…I dunno if I'm allowed, but… I could help you look through them. There's bound to be some obvious throw-outs…"

He smiles softly. "Thanks honey, but I think something like that might cost me my job…"

As he turns back to his papers, the corners of my mouth turn down. I fit the criteria he was placing, and yet he said nothing. …Maybe he just thought I was committed to the lab in Frisco. I _was_… but, when it came to him, I didn't think there was anything I wouldn't do—plus, anyone with a brain would assume I'd take Vegas in a heartbeat… Frisco's lab was rated in the eighties…

I put it from my mind, thinking that perhaps he was just distracted, and that the thought would certainly occur to him eventually. I move between him and the desk then, sliding down to the floor, and proceed to torture him as he did me, only giving in and granting him release when he had begged me in a constant, flooding stream for a good twenty minutes.

Needless to say, he'd been punished.


	35. Proposal

Disclaimer: ...I think you all know by now.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, as always, they make my day! :) please let me know what you think... I was tempted to post another chapter, but I think I'll draw this out a little... Anyone know what's coming? :P

Enjoy!

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Chapter 7: Proposal

I scanned through application after application—Sara was right, there were some that were easy to dismiss immediately… missing letters of recommendation, experience as police officers in towns of 16 people, bachelor's degrees from small town colleges I'd never heard of… and even the really appealing applicants seemed to pale in comparison as Sara's answers to questions, her specific experience, and the bulk of her education… I wanted her to work with me, but there were several reasons I stopped myself from mentioning the subject.

First of all, there were rules against dating in the same unit… and there weren't any openings for the day shift…yet. I didn't feel like, at the start of our life together, losing the primary income was a smart idea… and I didn't want to hide Sara. I wanted to parade her—show the whole world how amazing and wonderful and unbelievable that such an amazing woman would have me.

Secondly, even if we did hide the relationship, I would be like a boss to her, indirectly, as I wasn't a supervisor, per se… but she would still be my subordinate. I didn't like that… it reminded me of how young she was, and how I'd almost been stupid enough to let her slip through my fingers, because she'd still been in school. And I never wanted her to look at me as anything but an equal—a partner, a lover, a friend.

And, it was true, I had some insecurities about asking her to stay—what if she really wanted to work at the San Francisco lab? Or felt obligated? Or simply wasn't ready to move in together? To move to an entirely different city for our relationship? I would move for her—I didn't want to, the lab had been my entire life before Sara, and I had worked hard for it—but I would, if that was the only way to be together. I just wasn't exactly sure how to broach the subject with her…

But I was in love with her—I hadn't told her so, exactly… poetry while making love was hardly a confession—and I felt like she might feel the same about me. I loved her in a way that I had never been able to love Laura or Becky, and I wanted her to be mine, to be hers, forever. …Strange that a man who had spent his entire life, slow and steady, looking for love and not finding it… had somehow stumbled upon it, while looking the other way… and was now racing to the finish line. …Sometimes though, you just _know_.

Tuesday night, lying in bed and watching her sleep—back at the townhouse, it was hard to sleep at night, I was so used to sleeping in this bed during the day—she had whimpered, softly, in her sleep. I had scooted closer, to look more closely—she had a bead of sweat on her forehead, and she was trembling.

Even knowing it was only a nightmare, I panicked—I never wanted her to ever feel pain—but forced myself to calm down… to not wake her, because she would not want to talk about it… that much I knew. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her body, gently, and rocked her as softly as I could, trying not to wake her. She stopped trembling, her whimpers stilled, and after only a minute, she had curled up to me, her breathing soft and peaceful.

It was in that moment that I knew what to do—even if it might scare her away—because she deserved to know everything… and to know everything I would offer her, if she would have me.

The first night in town, I'd taken her sightseeing—one step into the garage and she'd been laughing at my Mercedes. Defensively, I asked what had been so funny and she'd laughed again, saying it just surprised her—I didn't seem like a "car man."

So when I'd started planning, my first step was to sell it. Being a 41-year old man driving through Las Vegas, in a Mercedes, with a beautiful woman, in her mid-twenties, beside him had been too much for me anyway, and then I would have money to buy her the ring she deserved, not just one I could afford without being short for Amber's college money. Ecklie had admired the car when I first purchased it, and so he would be my first call.

Wednesday, I made an excuse to my sweet, sweet Sara that I had to run in to the office for a couple hours and would she be okay at the townhouse by herself? She asked to come in, to see the lab—I hadn't expected this, though, granted, I probably should have—and stammered through a half-assed refusal. She'd looked upset, but had relented. I met Ecklie at the lab—he paid me, and even agreed to let me keep a lab vehicle for a week, until I invested in a replacement vehicle.

Depositing his check, I debated calling Catherine to assist with the purchase of a ring—What did _I_ know about jewelry, after all? But it seemed too personal a purchase to trust to someone else, so I made my way to a jewelry store—well off the strip (she deserved as much)—and spent an hour with a poor sales woman who was in over her head; I needed a lot of guidance.

Finally I had chosen one I thought she would like, and though it wasn't nearly what she deserved, it was what I could afford; but Sara herself had a quiet, understated beauty, and I didn't think she would want anything larger anyway.

It had been nearly two hours, and I still needed to make a stop or two. I rushed out of the store, continually patting the inside breast pocket of my coat, wanting to be certain that I hadn't lost it, and hurried, feeling the nerves begin to rattle me.

Tonight could quite possibly be the most important night of my life.


	36. Doubt

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: ...I wonder if you'll all be as happy with me after this chapter. Still, I love the reviews!

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Chapter 8: Doubt

Gil's departure Wednesday afternoon had me spooked, to say the least. When I'd asked to come to the lab with him, his response had been wary… alarmed even. He didn't want me to go. He was _afraid_ of me going. Even though I keep plenty of secrets myself, I learned pretty quick, growing up in the homes I grew up in, that if you're afraid to be seen with someone, there's rarely an honest reason why. Either there was someone at the lab he didn't want seeing me, or something at the lab that he didn't want me to see. Whatever it was, it made me uneasy.

I tried very hard to give him the benefit of the doubt. I pushed it out of my mind, walking aimlessly around the townhouse, trying to occupy myself. I ended up in the office—he had told me I was welcome to use the computer—and I figured I'd check my email, surf the web, until he got home. He had a pile of mail on top of the desk, beside the haphazard contents of his application boxes—I picked up a newly delivered forensics journal, thinking that I could easily waste an hour paging through it—and beneath it I saw two open letters. It wasn't intentional at first—but the letters "FBI" grab your attention fast, and my curiosity got the best of me.

It was recognition of the receipt of monthly payments—a year's worth on this letter, but there was no telling how long it had gone on. The amount was consistent each month—and if my guess was good, it was probably half of what he made in a month, each month. Lifting up the paper to look more closely—almost in disbelief—I realize there's another open letter beneath it—a bank statement. Monthly automatic withdrawals—half the combined amount of deposited checks from the Las Vegas Crime Lab each month…

I replaced the letters under the magazine, contemplating—I'd opened the internet automatically—and it was now open to his email, and I felt intrusive, so I went to the address bar—but for the life of me I couldn't get my mind to think of even a random address to take me out. I was stuck on the FBI thing. Was he really an FBI agent posing as a CSI? Did he have a double life? Was he paying somebody off in the FBI? No, that was stupid… his paper trail was too obvious. So it had to be something legal… but nothing had shown up to indicate FBI on his bank statements. If it hadn't been for the first letter…

His computer _bee-oop_-ed at me and a new message opened itself on the page in front of me. A statement from his bank—a large sum of money had been deposited within the last hour… He'd told me he was at the lab…

I got up, starting to pace the room.

Maybe it was hypocritical of me, but I couldn't stand the idea that I thought I knew this man and yet apparently I didn't. He had lied to me about where he was going, possibly about who he was—his name, his job… everything I thought I knew about him was based around our shared occupation, which might be a façade.

Maybe there was a reason that the house looked unoccupied—the fridge had held few perishables, and the only rooms that looked well-lived in were the office and the master bedroom… like he used the house only as often as absolutely necessary. Where did that leave me? And where was he, when he said he'd be at the lab, but instead was collecting large sums of money?

_Bee-oop!_

The damn computer again. I glance at the screen. Another message is open—another bank statement. I hesitate, but at this point I need answers. I can't possibly be so stupid as to have been thinking I would jump into a life with a man I know nothing about, apparently. I approach the screen—a purchase from a business name I don't recognize, somewhere across town… nowhere near his townhouse or the lab. It's a purchase costing just over what he makes in three months. That's it. The breaking point.

I mark both messages as unread, and I close the internet, all but running into the bedroom to repack my clothing. I don't know how I'll get home, or whether I'll be stuck until Sunday for the flight he's scheduled me, but hopefully they'll let me switch this one for a sooner one. All I know is that I can't be here anymore.

No wonder he hadn't wanted me to apply at the lab, or had been perfectly fine accepting my unwillingness to tell my secrets—I'd probably been a fucking dream come true. How could I expect him to tell me his secrets if I wouldn't tell mine? And then there were the pictures all over the house…

I hadn't noticed them, or paid them much attention, at least, on my first perusal of his townhouse. But I had noticed them little by little—a blonde woman and Gil with their arms wrapped around each other, in the little living room by the door. I had written it off—I had pictures of Michael and I in the apartment, and it hadn't meant anything.

But then I noticed pictures of this woman at different ages, spread around the house… a picture of her as a three or four year old on the nightstand in the guest bedroom, as a ten year old on a bookcase in his office, as a young teenager on his dresser… at first I thought a sister, but no, I had gone back to the first picture—you didn't hold a sister like that.

Michael still had a picture of me—one of the few I had of me as a child—and I would bet all the money I had in the world that Michael was still in love with me. Gil was still in love with this woman… you just didn't keep childhood pictures of somebody unless you were obsessively adoring of every step they'd taken in life…

And he'd told me he liked long-legged brunettes. This woman was blonde... Maybe he dated brunettes now because no blonde could live up to her…

I abandoned my packing for a moment, rushing to the living room for conformation. I pulled the picture out of its frame to read the back—"Gil and Laura, New Year's Eve 86/87."

I slip it back into the frame and walk back to his bedroom, doing the math in my head. It was the New Year's that I had first kissed Tyler. I had just turned fifteen. _Gil's been in love with this woman… Laura… for eleven years. _With that realization—that this is a woman I could never compete with—I go back to my packing.

I'm less frantic this time—I'm not running away anymore, I'm leaving decisively.

It's as I'm zipping up my suitcase after double and triple checking that I have everything that I hear the front door open and close.

"Sara?" he calls. I sigh, and make my way out to the kitchen just as he's moving down the stairs.

He looks excited, and it throws me off for a minute, but I'm determined. Never in my life have I allowed a man walk all over me, and I'm not starting now.

"Hey honey, I have a surprise for tonight, if you're up for it."

He hands me an envelope, a big grin on his face. I keep my face blank as I take it from him and open it—a spa package for me, for today… several hours. I look up at him in genuine surprise, but I don't give him the smile he's waiting for and his own falters. When he speaks, his voice is nervous—uncertain.

"It's uh… I thought you could spend the day relaxing, and I'd fix the townhouse up… fix dinner… have a whole romantic night ready for you, by the time you got home."

I mentally cringe at him referring to the townhouse as my home. That kind of talk is dangerous—if there were ever a man I might slip and let myself be weak for, he was standing before me with stars in his eyes. I sigh.

"I'm, uh… I'm going back to Frisco tonight, Gil."

His eyes narrow and he looks upset… confused. "But… why? Did your lab call... or… I don't understand."

"No, they didn't call. I… I can't do this, Gil."

The hurt is clear in his eyes and I turn away from it. I've believed too many lies already. "You can't… do this? This what? You can't… be with me?"

"I guess," I laugh bitterly, "this is ironic, coming from me, but… I can't take the secrets, Gil. I can't handle not knowing what it is that you don't tell me and I can't handle not really knowing who you are and… and I don't want to be made a fool of."

"A fool? Sara, where is this coming from? I… secrets? Sara, I'll tell you everything, I just… I thought we'd tell our secrets together… I thought…"

"Why do you send money to the FBI every month?"

His mouth opens, and closes, in surprise. "Sara, I…" He swallows hard, breathing deep to regain control of himself. "…Why do you have that scar?"

I'm surprised that he's countered my question with a question. A question I don't understand. What scar? So I ask, "What scar?"

"It looks like you… your…" he blushes. "Your… perineum… tore, giving birth… not like an episiotomy scar, because the stitches were jagged…"

My face pales. I'd never realized the stitching had left a scar… the day in his office, on the chaise… I hadn't been with anyone except Gil and Michael since the rape and the consequent stitches, and Michael wouldn't have said anything, of course…

I bite my bottom lip, but the hurt welling up inside me mixes with anger. He's been in love with someone else for eleven years, leads a double life, lies to me about where he's going when we haven't known each other a month, and he has the nerve to ask over such a hurtful secret?

I turn from him and move to the bedroom, picking up my bags and walking back out past him—he'd followed me to the doorway. "Sara? Sara! You… You can't leave!"

I stop in the kitchen, turning to look at him in the doorway to his hall, my bag over my arm. "No? Why not? I can't stay in Vegas, Gil. There's an opening at your very crime lab that I'd be perfect for, but you clearly don't want me to apply for it… You can't want me here that badly."

"Sara… I do want you here. There's supposed to be a day-shift opening within the next 6 months…"

"You just don't want me on the same shift, I get it. That way, you can do your own thing while I'm at work for nine hours… gives you a lot of freedom, doesn't it?" I snap.

His eyes narrow in confusion, and I avert mine again. "Freedom? No, Sara… I can't date anyone who's on my same team, it's department policy…"

"Right, okay, so you're choosing your career over me?" That isn't even the reason we're fighting, but suddenly I'm extremely mad about that too. He looks bewildered.

"No, Sara, I'm… I would choose you any day. I wasn't aware that keeping my job put _us_ in jeopardy… Sara, you… you can put in an application, and… and I'm sure you'll get hired. But then… you have to realize that, in doing so, _you're_ choosing _your_ career over _me_. I… I don't want to hide our relationship and… I've spent my whole life working up to this point, and you, as a starting CSI, would force me to give it up for an entry level position?"

I feel guilty, and I'm softening, but then he continues. "Doesn't it… doesn't it make more sense that, since my income would be the primary income… that I would stay employed and… you would take the next opening?"

But the words "primary income" throw me back ten years, with all the force of a punch to the face, to a fight on a beach with my first love. And refusing this man in front of me becomes a matter of principle—if I allow myself to become the second-earner, the half-domesticated wife whose career takes a back seat, then I'm going back on everything I've ever believed about myself… I'm giving up everything I fought so hard all those years ago to keep.

I'm vulnerable again.

Even if this time, it makes sense… even if he isn't asking me to give up anything for him, just asking me to do the same—to not ask him to give up anything for me… I can't get over the similarities, the implications, and—of course—the secrets.

"…We can stay friends, Gil. I'll… I'll email you."

And I leave, holding back my tears until I'm out the door—my taxi pulls up with cosmic timing—and I'm leaving Las Vegas and the man I had been deluded into believing was my soul mate.


	37. Friends

Disclaimer: Not mine, etc. etc.

A/N: So I felt guilty for yesterday, and I thought the next chapter would help--it isn't what you'll be hoping for, but there's some sweet smut in there... well, kinda. ...Long-distance smut. :) Let me know what you think!

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Chapter 9: Friends

I had thought that I knew what loss was—but apparently time does make you forget the intensity of the pain. Somehow, at least, in this pain, I kept my head. Ten minutes after she walked out my door, I had picked myself up and called the airlines—telling them that if they were unable to switch her flight when she asked them to (I was informed it would mostly depend on when she asked them and to which flight she wanted to be switched), that they should charge the new flight to me. I gave them my information, asked that they simply tell her it could be switched, either way, and then I let myself fall apart.

And by Monday, I had narrowed down the applications to twenty interviewees, and with Brass' go-ahead, I scheduled the interviews. I hadn't really slept, and if I'd thought I was devoted to my work before now, I had been mistaken. I hadn't known what devotion was. I pulled as many doubles as I was allowed, went over my allotted overtime every month, left late and came in early, even if it meant not clocking in so that I couldn't get in trouble for it. I purchased an average vehicle—decent, that would last a while, but nothing flashy—and went back to my lonely life.

I had received a picture of Amber in the mail—with no return address—about a month before the conference and had put it up on my dresser. When I was at home, I took to talking to it… she was fifteen now, and I talked to her about how important her grades were for that college education I expected her to get, and how she needed to respect herself… and all about the evils of teenage boys and how she really shouldn't wear make-up so young, and did she really need to be reading Cosmo?

When I finally realized that talking to the picture of the daughter-who-wasn't-really-mine-and-whom-I-hadn't-spoken-to-in-five-years was maybe a little borderline crazy, I emailed Sara. She had said she would email me, and she hadn't.

A part of me wanted to tell all my secrets… explain all my faults. But I restrained that impulse—I was afraid of further rejection, and afraid of her scorn. I didn't want her to laugh at my pain, or minimize it, or rationalize… and I didn't want to hear that my faults were too great, after all, for her to be with me… that even if I hadn't been so weak, or cowardly… even if I'd told her everything, right away, that I still wouldn't have been enough to make her stay.

So I emailed her as a friend—I talked about work, and the people we interviewed, and her opinion on articles in the forensic journals I knew we both subscribed to. I asked after her new job, her new cases, and Kelly—whose due date I knew was approaching fast. And to my great joy and surprise, she emailed back, also keeping to strictly friendly topics, but it was enough to keep me going… to get me to eat, and sleep. I would drift off replaying funny things she'd written or trying to solve difficult dilemmas, either in her life or her case files… wanting to solve all her problems… wanting to know she was happy.

A week or so into June, she suggested I install something called instant messaging on my computer… something I didn't know much about, but I followed her instructions and there, like a miracle, was as close to a face-to-face conversation as either of us would dare.

SidleOnOver: Hey, shouldn't you be at work?

Grissom: Ha. Jim made me take a night off…

Grissom: Something about needing to take one day off a month…

SidleOnOver: :( I think he made that rule up.

Grissom: Probably. How've you been?

SidleOnOver: Good, good.

SidleOnOver: …Tough shift today.

Grissom: Oh?

SidleOnOver: Thirteen year old girl, raped and murdered.

SidleOnOver: I like the dad for it, but right now it looks like he's going to get away with it…

SidleOnOver: Anyway, not your problem…

Grissom: Anything that upsets you is my problem…

SidleOnOver: …Yeah, I'll talk to you later, Gil.

SidleOnOver is now Offline.

So I stopped asking personal questions… stopped trying to be concerned, or sweet. Mostly we small-talked, or discussed cases… never the emotions behind them.

The only other conversations we had were... surprising, to me. She wouldn't allow any kind of emotional connection between us, but sometimes the conversation would evolve, playfully, in other directions… and she didn't avert it the way she usually did when I was sweet. I wasn't sure why, but I lived for those conversations… even if I questioned the morality of it all…

Grissom: Hey

SidleOnOver: Ugh. Hey.

Grissom: Ugh?

SidleOnOver: Lol, sorry. Just trying to get over the day I've had…

Grissom: Psst. It's like 6 in the morning… you haven't had much of a day yet.

SidleOnOver: Psst. I haven't gone to bed yet, so it's still technically yesterday…

Grissom: What happened?

SidleOnOver: Too much. I think I'm drunk…

Grissom: You're still typing clearly…

SidleOnOver: lol, I hate men.

Grissom: Tell me what happened.

SidleOnOver: Nothing, just several bad cases… peeping tom turned stalker turned window masturbator turned rapist… seems like they all come at you at once, you know?

SidleOnOver: And then there's this new DNA tech who creeped the hell out of me today, so…

Grissom: What did he do?

SidleOnOver: Well, first he took my picture when I walked in to check to see if we'd gotten anything from the semen…

Grissom: Right.

SidleOnOver: I didn't like it, but he said he was a visual person, you know? He wasn't good with names… he was taking a picture of all the CSIs…

SidleOnOver: But by the end of shift, no one else has gotten their picture taken in front of me, so I ask my friend if he did it when I wasn't around… he hadn't.

Grissom: …okay.

SidleOnOver: Exactly—Creepy. So I go try to get it back from the creeper, who laughs and makes me chase him around the f-ing DNA lab to get it back.

Grissom: Did you get it?

SidleOnOver: …No.

SidleOnOver: He put the damn thing in this… random porn magazine he pulled out from the back of a drawer… and then sat on it.

SidleOnOver: I gave up after a half an hour, when I realized he was enjoying my attention too much…

SidleOnOver: But now a creeper has a picture of me tucked between giant, glossy vaginas, and I can't stop snapping my head to the windows, expecting someone to be outside, jerking off.

SidleOnOver: …In retrospect, it probably wasn't a good thing to start drinking when I was worried about that…

SidleOnOver: But it made me stop worrying, for a while…

Grissom: …Do you really think you need to worry about this guy?

SidleOnOver: …No. I think he thought he was flirting with me. He's pretty young.

Grissom: Fifteen years younger?

SidleOnOver: Lol, no.

SidleOnOver: I almost feel bad for him though… Poor kid's barking up the wrong tree.

Grissom: What do you mean? …Saying you don't date perverts?

SidleOnOver: Lol—I think you would be Exhibit A to the contrary, Dr. Grissom. …No, I'm just saying I prefer older men…

Grissom: Exhibit A? When was I ever perverted…?

SidleOnOver: Ha! You're joking, right?

SidleOnOver: Mr.-I-have-a-weakness-for-red-lace…

Grissom: I'd hardly call that a perversion…

Grissom: And you _wanted_ me to have a weakness for it.

SidleOnOver: I can't _make_ you have that weakness though… I just sensed that it was already there.

SidleOnOver: Case in point, if I told you I was wearing only that red lace set right now…

SidleOnOver: Could you honestly tell me your thoughts wouldn't be in the gutter?

Grissom: No… but I'd also question your judgment.

SidleOnOver: Judgment?

Grissom: You're afraid of peeping toms at the moment, yet you stay up all night on your computer, in red lace and nothing else, getting drunk?

Grissom: I almost wonder if I shouldn't send an unmarked police car to watch your apartment…

SidleOnOver: No, you almost wonder if _you_ shouldn't offer your own protection…

Grissom: No.

Grissom: You, in lace, feeling vulnerable from the cases you've been working, tipsy enough to bring up old moments of my apparent 'perversion,' but sober enough to make me feel like it would be consensual…

Grissom: I wouldn't trust myself.

SidleOnOver: …I am sober enough.

SidleOnOver: It would be consensual.

Grissom: … For the record, I liked you in my old t-shirts as much as I did in the lace…

SidleOnOver: The chaise in your office can attest to that.

Grissom: Really? And what do you think the carpet under my desk would say about you, Miss Sidle?

SidleOnOver: That I give great head.

Grissom: …

SidleOnOver: Well, you know what I'm wearing…

SidleOnOver: What about you?

SidleOnOver: No, wait, lemme guess.

SidleOnOver: You finished shift about a half hour ago… you probably ate something little, and were checking your email before bed… so, worst case scenario, you're still in work clothes… best case scenario, a t-shirt and boxers…

Grissom: Apparently it's a good day?

SidleOnOver: Tease.

SidleOnOver: …I must be drunk. I didn't mean to type that.

Grissom: You once told me that you weren't a tease if you intended to follow through…

SidleOnOver: …Gil, do… do you miss… being with me? Like, not together, but… the sex, I mean.

Grissom: Every day.

SidleOnOver: …I'm sorry, I shouldn't be doing this. I'm gonna put my wine away…

Grissom: What I miss the most was feeling the vibrations through your body, when you moaned deeply… feeling and hearing and seeing, simultaneously, how good I made you feel…

SidleOnOver: Gil… I don't know if I'm sober enough to stop this…

Grissom: I'm sorry. I'll stop.

SidleOnOver: …Please don't.

Grissom: …

SidleOnOver: I wasn't lying… I'm wearing the red lace set…

Grissom: I wanted you so badly, that day… I don't know how I stopped myself.

SidleOnOver: I don't think you did… a cold shower in the rain slowed you down, but…

Grissom: You felt better than anything I'd ever known, Sara…

SidleOnOver: If I were there right now, Gil…?

Grissom: I would make sure I took my time, kissing you deeply…

SidleOnOver: Mmm, I don't think I'd let you take your time… it's been so long since we were together.

Grissom: I'd tie you up if I had to, sweet. Nothing would rush me…

SidleOnOver: Are you touching yourself, Gil?

Grissom: I'd move my kisses down your body…

Grissom: …tease every inch of you.

SidleOnOver: …are you touching yourself?

Grissom: slowly slide the lace from your body…

Grissom: trace my fingertips along the newly exposed skin…

SidleOnOver: Gil…

Grissom: Yes?

SidleOnOver: Are you touching yourself?

Grissom: Are you?

SidleOnOver: God, yes.

Grissom: I wish it were my fingers… my tongue, Sara.

Grissom: I would bring you to the edge, but not let you go over… again and again.

SidleOnOver: Gil.

Grissom: And when you were begging for mercy…

SidleOnOver: Gil.

Grissom: Only then would I push inside you.

SidleOnOver: Gil!

Grissom: Yes?

SidleOnOver: Please tell me you're touching yourself… are you thinking of my hand? My mouth?

Grissom: Your mouth… your body. I wish I were inside you.

SidleOnOver: Does it feel good?

Grissom: Not as good as you did.

SidleOnOver: God, I know…

SidleOnOver: …I need to finish, Gil. Will you finish with me, right now? I want to know that you are too…

Grissom: I'll be thinking of you.

This was the first of many, though when they happened, I made sure she hadn't been drinking first… that assuaged my conscience a little. We never talked about it, after the conversation had finished…but I lived for those moments when I could be with Sara again, in the only way she would let me.

And for a while, it was enough just to have a part of her… it made me feel like I was still the only man in her life, even if I wasn't what I wanted to be to her.


	38. Baby

Disclaimer: Not mine, and all that...

A/N: Please review! More is coming tomorrow, hopefully... especially if I feel motivated. ...hint hint. :)

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Chapter 10: Baby

Kelly's due date was July second, and so I had taken the week off, flown back to Boston, prepared to help the happy couple out and see the baby she was calling my niece. She was an only child, and I'd told her that I'd lost contact with my brother once I went into foster care, and so she considered me one as well.

"We'll be each other's kids' aunts!" She had explained, before asking if I wanted—well, telling me, really—to be the baby's godmother. I had laughed.

"Do I really have a choice?"

"No." She replied with a smug smile, but she knew that I was happy about it.

And Eric was a very nice man—a lot like me, which was strange—I would have expected Kelly to marry someone a little more outgoing, more like herself. But I had once said that the pair of us balanced each other out, and maybe that was what he'd done for her. When I'd run away to Berkeley, she'd lost the person keeping her balanced. Maybe if I'd even interacted with other people, after I left, I would have felt the loss in the same way—found someone Kelly-like… but I had barely spoken to another soul after I moved for years, except at work.

Of course, she asked after my love life—that was Kelly. And it was harder to avoid when you weren't just on the phone… I told her I wasn't seeing anybody. The problem was, I'd spent six years avoiding Kelly's probing questions—she knew how I tried to be honest, first, and not tell too much, before I switched to outright lying. And she _always_ knew if I was lying…

"So, you're not 'seeing' anyone, but there is someone that you're _not seeing_?"

I laugh. "What was that now?"

She grins, running a hand over the positively massive belly under her maternity shirt. "Someone you can't call a 'boyfriend,' but you're obviously hung up on… and have probably slept with, considering your track record." At my look, she clarifies. "I'm not saying you sleep around, but if you like someone, you're going to do them."

I blush furiously. "_Do_ them, Kelly? Are we in sixth grade?"

"What's his name?"

I wrinkle my nose, upset at how easily she sees through me. "Gil."

She giggles. "As in Gilbert?"

I laugh with her—a surprised laugh. It hadn't occurred to me that it was a strange name until now… I seek to explain this. "…Well, he introduced himself as 'Dr. Gilbert Grissom'…"

She watches me for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and then they open wide. "Oh my god! That's the problem! He was a teacher!"

I blush—he wasn't, but it was too close for comfort. "No, no, he… he wasn't my teacher. He was at the conference I was telling you about…"

"But he's older than you." I let my shoulder rise and fall in tacit agreement—of course he was older. I hadn't seriously looked at someone my age since Michael. She watches me. "As old as Michael?"

I bite my bottom lip. Michael had been eleven years my senior… Gil was fifteen. As usual, she knows me too well.

"He's _older_ than Michael?"

I laugh, unexpectedly, at the inflection in her voice. "He's not ninety… he's… forty-one." Her eyebrows raise higher, and I rush to defend myself, and him. "He is the sexiest forty-one you ever saw… bright blue eyes, brown curls with just a hint of gray at the temples, the sweetest little boy smile, and oh, god, Kel', you should see his _arms_…"

She grins—she hasn't seen me swoon over a guy in years. "…Is he good?"

I glare, but her grin is infectious, and once I'm smiling I can't hold back anymore. "Oh my god, he's amazing!"

She giggles, and I do too. I feel like I'm in college again. "Bigger than Michael?"

I tilt my head, considering. The fact that there had been years between the two certainly didn't help the comparison, but still, I was pretty sure. "Yeah, a little. Well, no… I mean, he's not really longer but… he's definitely… wider." I consider the description. "Or would it be… thicker?"

She rolls her eyes, and grins ear-to-ear. "Not being longer than Michael is still impressive. Didn't you tell me he was—"

"Alright now, enough walking down memory lane. It doesn't matter, anyway… I… broke up with him."

"What?! You're hung up on a guy, he's amazing in bed, and yet you're the one who ended it? …this is some crazy insecurity thing, isn't it? When are you going to stop letting your past ruin your future?"

She's angry, and she's probably even right, but I don't really want to admit it. Kelly doesn't really know—she knows more than any of the men I'd ever been with, but she still doesn't _know._ I had told her that I was put in foster care because my dad hit my mom when he drank, and she hadn't been able to take care of us on her own.

She doesn't know that they were both alcoholics, or that my father had hit all of us—my mother and my brother and me, often… and not just when he was drinking. She didn't know where my mother was now, or how close my brother came to death, several of the times he'd been beaten, or how I'd been in the room when my mother stabbed him… She didn't know that my mother had snapped and killed him when she walked in and saw that he was… so she doesn't _understand._

I shrug, looking down. She takes it for emotion rather than deception. "It isn't even that… he just… he was still in love with someone else."

She gives me a sad smile now, and wraps an arm around me. "I'm sorry, hon. …Still, maybe it's for the best. You'd never make it in to that dream job you're working if you had all that man at home, waiting for you…"

I nudge her and she laughs, pleased that her vulgarity can bring a blush to my cheeks once more—when I had left Boston I had been all but immune to it. "Yeah, yeah… let's feed you and little Josephine, already." I say, rising to pull our frozen pizza from the oven—Eric's working late tonight, and we'd decided to stay in and pig out.

I cut it up quickly, giving each of us half—hey, we're pigging out, right?—and then we curl up on the couch, turning on a chick flick. But before I can even establish what dilemma beautiful woman is suffering from that beautiful, if somewhat cheesy, man is going to save her from, Kelly drops her entire plate of pizza onto the floor, and doubles up over her baby bump.

One look at her face tells me what's happening, and so I jump up, calling Eric at work in a near panic—but he calms me, tells me where the suitcase is—pre-packed, thank god—and says he'll meet us at the hospital. Kelly's laughing at me, even through her pain, and I throw her a glare.

"Just like you to be laughing through your contractions. …They're gonna get a _lot_ worse you know…" I add, attempting to wipe the smirk off her face. I'm panicking and she's _laughing_?

She giggles, seeing through me. "You are so spiteful, Sara. Just laugh for once! I'm having a baby! You're going to be an auntie and a godmother! Go get the suitcase; I got a kid to pop out!"

"Josephine" turned out to be a Joey (they'd never let the doctors tell them, but Kelly had had a "feeling" it was a girl…), but Kelly did not seem disappointed in the slightest. She held him in her arms like he was everything that had ever been valued, throughout the course of human history, and then some. She passed him to Eric, and eventually to me, and I held the baby with the pinched little face close, breathing in the sweetness of his new-baby smell.

I hadn't liked the babies, in my foster homes… I was good with them, but it was because I had to learn how to be—everything went smoother if there was less crying. But Joey—I really liked him. …No, I _loved_ him. How strange, that I had not been involved in the pregnancy, except at the very end, had not even really given a thought to _my_ relationship with him, simply being happy that Kelly would be a mother… and yet here, this tiny, scrunched little body in my arms… and I was lost.

…Maybe I would want to be a mother, after all. …Someday. And then I'm crying—not sobbing, but single, silent tears slide down my cheeks. I'm not sure if this is because I'm overwhelmed at the realization of my emotions, or by the emotions themselves, or if it's with this epiphany that I realize the extent of my loss; I wouldn't want a baby with anyone but Gil, and I don't have him…

But then, I have to admit with frustration, maybe I had never had him. …All the evidence showed me that he had never, truly, been mine at all. I wipe my tears aside, and kiss Joey's chubby little cheeks fiercely, trying to ease the ache in my breast.

I would never have this.


	39. Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just really wish I did.

A/N: Very short chapter, I know... the next one is kind of a big deal though, so I want to make sure I proof-read it well. :) Let me know what you think, hopefully I'll have the next one up by tonight or tomorrow morning.

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Chapter 11: Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes

We finally narrowed down our applicants to twenty-five interviewees, which Brass and I split—keeping five to re-interview together. Of the five, it was certainly hard to choose two—they had all done exceptionally well in school, and had individual areas of expertise.

One was a Texan with an easy smile—bright-eyed, eager to please… eager to prove himself, and he came from a great school—Texas A&M. His accent was charming, his vigor impressive—he wanted justice as fervently as a person can want anything—and I trusted him, immediately.

Another was a woman—impressively intelligent, but seeming fairly ambitious. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I'd seen ambition cloud judgment—and impair the execution of justice in the process—in the past. It made me wary.

The third applicant was another woman, who we very nearly hired—but she told us she would be relocating within a year, if not sooner, and after a lot of discussion, Jim and I decided we wanted to hire someone with more staying power.

The forth was a tall man with a careless but modest confidence—he hadn't gone to as good a school as some of the applicants—UNLV—but it was still a good school, and there was something to be said for working in your home town. It gave you a certain insight… plus, every answer he gave was meticulous. He may not have come from the Ivy League, but he certainly had known his forensics, maybe better than any of the other applicants.

And the final was a man from Yale—he was nearly perfect. Nearly perfect grades, class ranking, letters of recommendation… but it didn't feel right. I had the feeling that while he could detail on paper every perfect aspect of processing a scene, he wouldn't have the insight—that indefinable 'it' factor—which made for a good CSI. Sometimes you needed to at least be able to see around protocol, even when you followed it to a letter.

Needless to say, we hired the Texan and the Las Vegan, Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown. One of the best decisions I think we ever made for the lab. Of course, during every interview I had given I was imagining how Sara's answers or her education would be superior—but it doesn't do to dwell on things you can never have. They were excellent additions to the team, and I enjoyed getting to know them.

Nick looked at me like a mentor—he struggled with the sinfulness of sin city, and with being away from home. Even when he'd gotten his own place, he'd been very close to his family—Sunday dinners, babysitting nieces and nephews on the weekends, movie nights with a sister or two… I really felt for the young man, who seemed as though he'd needed the opportunity to make a life and a name for himself, but who also seemed a bit lost in that endeavor. I tried hard to be a good mentor to him, because he was a good man, and a great CSI—he deserved as much.

Warrick was a little less open, a little more reserved—but no less kind or genuine. I sensed in him that he was resistant to the idea of a mentor, but over time he stopped viewing me as a boss and more as a colleague. And when that barrier shifted, and a level of trust was established, I was able to see a bit more of who he was. And I became a sort of mentor to him as well—less because he wanted or needed it, and more like a meeting of minds… I had more experience, and he drew knowledge from our interactions to better himself.

I enjoyed working with both of them, and felt like my errant thought that I would 'father a lab' was, in a way, coming to fruition. I almost felt like the new additions, though rookies to an extent, were better than the veterans we'd lost. They were insightful and dedicated and professional… even if Nick couldn't bring himself to call me 'Gil.'

Maybe it was the informality of it—I'd once heard him in the locker room, on the phone with his dad, say 'Yes, sir.' I had never called my parents 'ma'am' and 'sir'… so maybe it was just a different set of expectations. But I refused to be 'Dr. Grissom' to a team member… and eventually, he just starting calling me Grissom, which worked. I wasn't even upset when the others picked it up—Catherine going back and forth between Grissom and Gil, and Warrick shortening it to 'Griss' more often than not. And, for some reason, I liked it… maybe it was just because it was the first time in my life I had a nickname, or maybe it made me feel closer to the team.

Maybe I felt closer to the team because I was more confident in the team—they were just such good criminalists, down to a man. I was certain that the lab would soon be rising in rankings again.

Although it had been a goal of mine, to get the lab to be one of the best in the country, that was fading a bit. I still worked for it, but instead it was because of the increased amount of funding we received, with the higher rankings. It left more room for experiments, and following the evidence through to the end, purchasing new and better equipment, and paying employees what they deserved.

I appreciated the importance of that.


	40. The Actions of a Desperate Woman

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Please review this one!! :) ...I'm kinda nervous to see what you guys will think. I don't think anyone saw this coming... tell me if I'm wrong though!

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Chapter 12: The Actions of a Desperate Woman

By the fall I had fallen into a routine—I got up in the morning, got ready for work, ate toast or an apple on the way, with lots of coffee, I worked a full shift, pulled a double when necessary—often more than necessary, especially if I'd been thinking about Gil—and then made my way home.

I ordered take out because I wasn't much of a cook and, after eating Gil's food for a few weeks, I couldn't justify putting in the time and effort to cook for myself, for so little in return. I'd eat in front of the tv, or the computer, or a forensic journal, and I'd fall asleep listening to the police scanner. If I couldn't sleep—which was often, because I was having nightmares again—I would stay up and read.

The nightmares were better in some ways, and worse in others—it wasn't always scenes from my life anymore. I saw the victims' faces, especially if I felt they had endured something similar to me… I saw the crimes being committed, I heard their screams… I watched the faces of their killers or their rapists or their abusers and I would wake up screaming too.

But there were a few positives, despite living without him and enduring the unexpected emotional fallout of my job… because I was working a job I loved. I had a few friends at the lab—I wasn't really close to them—and the creepy DNA tech turned out to be a great guy, even if he was constantly hitting on me.

His name was Greg Sanders, a few years out of Stanford, fresh from the streets of New York, and as awkward socially as I was. We went out for drinks, or to eat after shift—always in a group, because I didn't want him to get the wrong idea about us—but we sat together, and talked mostly amongst ourselves. It was nice, to have a friend in town.

Eventually we worked around to a movie, here or there—as long as he promised to keep his hands to himself. I was not interested in fighting off come-ons while trying to enjoy a movie with the only friend I had in town. And he was good for a while—he stopped blatantly hitting on me, his flirting was limited to the minimum amount he subjected everyone else to, and he was a good friend. I trusted him… maybe too much.

And then Gil made me an offer that I felt I _should_ refuse… but which I really didn't _want_ to refuse. The problem was that not only did I want to run to him, but that I wanted it so much… wanted _him_ so much… that I was at a very real risk of actually doing it.

Grissom: So, uh… listen, I know this is going to make you run away from the computer with lots of excuses, but… let me make my argument first, before you run.

SidleOnOver: …Okay.

Grissom: I don't know if you have any… family to speak of, but I'm going to guess not, because you never talked about them, and you didn't have any pictures up, in your apartment. I'm not asking about them, I'm just… making an offer.

Grissom: My mom is getting too old to travel very far, and I'm stuck working over Thanksgiving and Christmas…

Grissom: I was thinking, since neither of us, to my knowledge, has anyone to spend them with… maybe we could spend them together… here, in Vegas. I'd be working nights, but… we could still have the big meals… the traditions… during the day.

Grissom: And, you know… you could sleep in the guest room. I'm not… expecting anything. I just thought…

Grissom: I thought that it would be terrible for two people to be alone for the holidays, especially when they're friends and they could… just as easily spend the time together. You know?

Grissom: I could pay for the flight, that's no problem.

SidleOnOver: Gil…

Grissom: Please, Sara?

SidleOnOver: … I'll think about it.

SidleOnOver is Offline.

That conversation had me running for the door in five minutes—meeting Greg at a club in twenty. He was the only person I'd ever let myself get drunk around—like, actually drunk, not just a little silly, or tipsy like around Kelly. He was the only person, other than Gil, that I trusted enough—with Kelly, you needed to make sure _someone_ was sober—and Gil hadn't been much for recreational drinking. It was wine at dinner, champagne for special occasions, a glass of scotch at the end of a long day…

Greg was waiting at one of the tables—I was surprised he'd been able to get us one, even though it was early. He had a beer in hand and a Sex on the Beach in front of the seat across from him. I beamed.

"Hey Greggo! Thanks for coming…"

"Of course. You sounded like you needed to talk." He takes a drink and I appraise how much is left. I don't want to be drunk alone.

"Well, you were wrong. I don't need to talk, I need to forget. What d'you say you order another beer while I finish off my sex…" He grinned at me like a school boy and I felt myself returning it, with a roll of my eyes. "…and then we pound some shots and go dance?"

He shakes his head. "You are a strange, strange woman, Sara."

"We all are."

By midnight I couldn't see a foot in front of my face clearly—and I had made sure Greg was well ahead of me before I let myself go, just in case I said something I didn't want to say… I wanted him to not remember it, or at least not be able to make sense of it, later. I'd spent the whole night in his arms—grinding in time to the music, and trying to forget how tempting, and how sweet, Gil's offer had been. Trying not to let the investigator in me tell me that I'd been ridiculously stupid—if he worked for the FBI, why was he so consistently online at the end of shift? It seemed off… and knowing that, I wanted to ask myself if I'd overreacted—if I'd made myself believe there were more lies than there were…

I didn't ask. I drank.

And when Greg called us a cab because we'd been cut off at the bar and could hardly walk straight, I was the one who said it made sense to crash in one place, since we both had the day off the next day. I was the one who, after we'd all but crawled up the stairs to his apartment—not mine, I didn't want anyone in my bed but Gil—asked him whether he was going to make me sleep on a couch. And when, somehow, through his drunken haze, he'd found his inner-gentleman and offered to sleep there instead, I was the one who asked why we couldn't just pass out together—we'd been in closer proximity than that all night.

When in the bedroom, I was the one who stripped down to my underwear, claiming how hot it was, and I was the one who curled up against his chest when he'd tried to look away from me. After he was on top of me, naked and trembling, I was the one who convinced him that he wasn't taking advantage of me, because he was drunk too. I was the one who explained that I still wanted him, I just wouldn't kiss him because of all the alcohol on my breath. And when he finally relented, and pushed inside me, I was the one rocking against him—pushing us both to the edge—and I was the one who slipped, screaming out Gil's name instead of Greg's, closing my eyes and pretending it was the older man, rather than the younger.

The next morning, we woke up in each other's arms, and neither of us seemed disappointed by the turn of events. Greg, for his part, worried that he'd taken advantage of me, but as I had a better memory of how we'd even gotten to that point of the night, he was easily reassured—and ecstatic. I had to take another moment, to explain to him that just because we had drunk sex didn't mean we were going to be more than friends. To my surprise, he laughed—apparently he had expected as much from me, and even remembered that I had said someone else's name… he just couldn't remember exactly _what_ I'd said.

I gave him a big hug, when I left, promising I'd call him later—and I did. We managed to stay close friends, and he only brought up the night—and my errant screams of passion—in private, and that was good. I hadn't planned to use Greg, but the release had helped my mood immensely.

I told Gil, that night, that I could do Christmas, but not Thanksgiving—I didn't really have a reason, I was just afraid of letting myself have too much of him—I'd never be able to stick to my convictions otherwise. He seemed like he hadn't expected to get either, and so he was happy with my decision.

…I just hoped I wouldn't regret it.


	41. Opening Up

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Wow! ...nobody liked the Greg thing, huh? :) Well, maybe this chapter will make up for it a little...

...Sara has described herself as being self-destructive... I don't believe that to manifest itself in physical ways, but in bad decision-making... she drinks when she shouldn't, she lets her impulses override her judgement, and her emotions--especially those she runs from--to supercede logic... she would rather give up everything that's important in her life than stop running from her past. At some point, I believe she'll have enough personal growth to stop running--to prioritize better.

Anyway, just wanted a little explanation, for those who didn't like it, or her for it, or who just didn't think it was believable... that this was why I made the choices I made in the previous chapter.

Okay, so... read and review? Pretty peas?

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Chapter 13: Opening Up

I had spent nearly every waking moment, when I wasn't at work, cleaning the townhouse and getting ready for Sara to come spend the week with me. I hadn't heard her voice since that day she'd left, and I found myself counting down the days with an almost frantic reverence. So when she called, it was unexpected… and surprising, and wonderful. It came early—before seven a.m.—and so I hadn't gone to bed yet. I almost didn't answer, expecting it to be work, because who else would call so early?

"Grissom."

"…Gil?" She sounded nervous, and there were tears in her voice.

"Sara? What's wrong, are you okay?"

"I, uh… I'm sorry. I…"

"Calm down, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong."

"I… I can't come for Christmas."

"…Oh." My heart aches… I want to ask why, but I don't know if I dare.

"Um… I know this is a lot to ask, but… Can you get some time off?"

"…I'm sure I can, Sara. What do you need?"

"I… My… I have a funeral, on the 23rd… but I need to be in Tomales Bay for a week."

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Let me call Jim, and check flights, and then I'll call you back. Okay, Sara?"

"…Okay."

"Sara?"

"Yes?"

"If I can't get a flight, I'll drive there tonight, okay? I will be there."

"Thank you, Gil."

Jim was upset—but luckily between Catherine and the guys, my shifts were covered, especially when they heard it was for a funeral. I lied, a little, and said it was across the country, and _my_ relative… but I didn't care. Anything for my Sara.

Then the airport—I got lucky, there was one seat left on a flight leaving in an hour and a half—I frantically packed, remembering, thankfully, a nice suit and tie, for the funeral. I was at McCarran only an hour before the flight and the security officials glared at me as I rushed through with only my carry on, anxious to board my flight.

I had called her while driving, but I had been distracted—so when I sat on the flight, I was finally able to take a breath, and call again.

"Hi." She answered, knowing it was me.

"Hey, Sara… I only have a minute, I just sat down on the plane. I should be in San Francisco around 10:45, if the flight's on time… Did you want me to rent a car or…"

"I'll pick you up. Thank you Gil."

"Of course, honey. You don't have to thank me, not for this, not ever, okay?"

I can see her nodding, even though we're on the phone. "Okay… I'll see you soon."

"Bye, Sara."

"Bye."

I hang up, turn my phone off, and try to calm my nerves—I can't get there any faster, no matter how much I worry. It doesn't help… I don't even know who died, although it must be someone important—we were spending the week there.

I'm excited to be spending another week with my Sara, but I also don't really know what to expect… how to act around her. From the moment I met her, I was seducing her and, without really knowing it, she had been seducing me too. Even as friends, we had moments of extreme weakness… how would I restrain myself when she was actually in the room with me, close enough to touch?

Grief, maybe, would drive her into my arms… or, might help me keep my distance…

I run my hand through my hair in agitation. I don't know how to be with Sara and not be _with_ her… and I feel like the reason she ran away—secrets—are going to be closer to the surface this week than they ever have been… and I don't know what to do about that, really.

In truth, I haven't figured it out even as the plane begins to land. I glance at my watch—we're perfectly on time. I extract my large carry-on from the overhead compartment—I had struggled to pack a week's worth of necessities into a small enough bag, but I figured that I'd run out and buy anything I needed, if the occasion presented itself. Sara was more important, and I needed to be on this flight.

My heart pounded frantically in my chest, and my phone was to my ear as soon as I'd exited the plane, to ascertain where I could find her. And not five minutes later I was sliding into the passenger seat of her car, stuffing my bag between my knees and gazing at her as a man gazes at sunlight after years in the dark. I didn't let myself admit that she looked at me much the same way—she had ended things pretty clearly, and disillusioning myself wasn't going to do us any good.

She drove us back to her apartment mostly in silence, and there was a tightness in my chest as I trekked the familiar path up to it—the last time I'd been here, I would have been pulling out my own key—one I still had, but wouldn't now use—and dragging her off to bed.

As it was, I determined myself to be as helpful as possible—and ask as few questions as I could, because she wouldn't want to tell me anyway. I left my bag in the doorway, because I wasn't sure if I'd be sleeping in the guest bedroom or her bed, and glanced at her—she'd moved to the couch, and sat looking down at her feet.

"Have you eaten, honey?" The endearments have been slipping, ever since I heard her voice again, but she hasn't told me to stop, and I miss voicing them.

She shakes her head slowly and looks at me. Without a word I start to rummage in her fridge, finally coming up with enough left-over's to make my mother's chicken noodle soup. Once it's on the stove, I'm digging again—making us each a cold sandwich.

I cut them in half, perching them on the edges of plates with bowls in the center, and grab two cokes from the fridge, setting everything on the table. With little enthusiasm, she rises, gets halfway to the table, and then seems to think of something, and makes a detour to the bookshelf before returning to the table.

In her hand is the picture frame she had turned down the first day I was here—the people she wouldn't discuss with me. I raise an eyebrow in a silent question, and she slides it across the table to me.

I pick it up and look at it as she raises her spoon to her lips—a round-faced, gray-haired man stood on her right, beaming with pride, but looking uncomfortable—like he wasn't good at displays of affection, or pictures. The woman on her left has a longer face, but it's kind—light brown hair drawn back, and frizzy in the heat. And between them, smiling with as much embarrassment as the man, is a sixteen year old Sara, in dark green graduation robes, a decorated collar around her neck. She'd graduated, even from high school, with honors.

I smile at how beautiful she was—at how strange it is to see her looking even younger than she is now—and I can't help but run a finger over her face in the picture. She's always been breath-taking. I look back up at the real-life Sara in front of me—she's watching me with a strange look on her face.

"Your parents?"

Her eyes flicker from me to the table. "My foster parents. They, uh… I lived with them for… two years. I didn't live in any of the other homes for over a year… Jim and Marlene Ruthers." She swallows hard, and I hold my breath, knowing that she's telling me something she had probably never intended to. "I talked to Marlene, on the phone, once every other week or so… she and Jim were the only ones who wanted to keep in touch, after I'd gone."

She glances at me again, and I take her hand gently in mine, not speaking. I don't want to push her, and I think she appreciates that… and she continues.

"They were… hit by a drunk driver, both of them died before the ambulances could get them to the hospital. I… I was listed as their next of kin."

I draw in a deep breath, and gently tug her arm—she immediately comes to me, sitting on my lap and letting me wrap my arms tightly around her. "I'm so sorry, Sara…"

She starts sobbing, into my shoulder, her fists clutching desperately at my shirt, and I hold her and rock her gently, trying to sooth her. Through her sobs, she's muttering something which I can barely make out—something I have a feeling she doesn't think I can hear. "They wanted me. The only ones. They wanted me."

I hold her tighter, blinking back my own tears, and trying to send all of my strength into her through our embrace.


	42. The Funeral

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: Okay, this one is long. Let me know what you think! :)

* * *

Chapter 14: The funeral

We slept in my bed that night—I had stopped crying long enough to finish eating. I hadn't felt hungry all day, but having Gil's cooking back, after months of take out and drive-through food, brought my hunger back. Yet when I dragged him into my room without a second thought and curled up next to him in bed, the tears came again, stronger and more painful—and he held me and rocked me, quoting poetry into my hair softly and even singing lullabies, when my tears had slowed and still I couldn't sleep.

And then I did sleep—deeply and dreamlessly—because he was there again. I had missed him so much—the smell of his deodorant, the texture of his hair, the solid, secure strength of his chest and his shoulders and his arms. He was an anchor, my anchor, and I needed him to ride out this storm.

He woke us the next morning, motivating me to get showered and dressed while he made breakfast. We ate together, and he sent me to pack while he quickly showered and dressed as well. He double-checked my packing, without being condescending, knowing that I was a bit distracted. He brought me my toothbrush and my cell phone charger, both of which I'd forgotten, and even had me run through what I'd be wearing to the funeral—I hadn't thought to pack nylons, and he retrieved them from my underwear drawer without a word.

We were on the road two hours after he'd gently shaken me awake, and in the silence of the car, I felt like I needed to fill up the space. He might be content to drive in silence, but I hadn't seen the man in months, I had just lost the closest thing I'd had to parents since I was seven, and I needed to talk. I needed to talk about them.

"…Jim bought me a book of Shakespearian sonnets, for my sixteenth birthday. He… the only books in the house were Marlene's romance novels…" I smile, despite myself. "I got desperate, and started reading them, just for something to read, but… he thought I was too young to be reading them, and I'd mentioned Shakespeare once, when we were flipping channels and Hamlet was on… It was really thoughtful."

He smiled. "You still have it?"

I nod. "Of course. …I haven't read it since I was in high school though…."

He gently takes my hand. "Tell me more about them."

And so the trip to Tomales Bay is spent with me recounting favorite memories, even fondly remembering the seven year old foster child who had made me fearful of keeping library books in the house, who had eventually gone back to his parents.

When we pulled into town, I directed Gil to their home—a small duplex in a retirement community, rather than the house I'd lived in. They'd moved here because all maintenance was taken care of for them… they'd been getting too old to manage the big house by themselves.

I let myself in with the key I'd been given years ago and had rarely used, feeling regretful that I hadn't visited more. There's a paper on the door step—Gil brings it in and hands it to me. "Would their obituary be today? Since the funeral is the 23rd…"

I sit on the couch, and page through it as he takes a seat beside me. He's right, and we read in silence. The last line makes me smile softly—survived by… their daughter, Sara Sidle. There's no "foster" before daughter. He wraps an arm around me and squeezes me softly. I sniffle, trying to organize my thoughts.

"I, uh… I'm responsible for all the… arrangements. But I think they had everything worked out… paid for… with the funeral home. I think."

His gaze is soft. He pulls me gently to their kitchen table—the same one from the previous house that I'd eaten at so many times—and takes a pad of paper and a pen from the kitchen. "Let's make a list."

He begins to write.

-Meet with funeral home—figure out arrangements  
-Food for reception—location?  
-Contact relatives?  
-Sort belongings  
-House?

I sit close to him, sliding my hand through his again. I really need it. "I don't want to keep the house… they left everything to me. I'll just… sell it, I guess."

"You sure, honey?"

I nod. "Yeah… I don't ever want to live in Tomales Bay, ever again."

He looks confused, but nods all the same. "The paper says the funeral is at 12:00, reception to follow. Were you hosting that?"

I nod. "There's no one else to… Jim's sister did the obituary, but she and her family live out of town…"

He squeezes my hand. "You call the funeral home, see when we can meet with them to go over everything. I'll go through the kitchen, and figure out our plan for food for the reception… and make a shopping list. Is there anyone you need to contact?"

I shake my head. "Marlene was an only child, all her friends lived in town… she was born here. So was Jim. His sister and her family… they already know."

"Tomorrow we'll call a real estate agent, and then, after the funeral, we'll start sorting through their things. Okay?"

I nod, slowly, and force myself up to call the funeral home, blinking furiously at the tears that seem to keep sneaking up on me, just when I think I've got my emotions under control.

We checked into a hotel, because I didn't feel right sleeping in their bed, and after grocery shopping, we retreated there, spending the night and most of the next day in bed. Gil held me, and rocked me—I cried a little, but mostly I slept and slept, for hours on end, deeply and dreamlessly, so I knew he'd stayed with me the whole time; I was restless even when he got up to go to the bathroom.

And then, finally, the day of the funeral arrived. Gil kissed my forehead, when he left our room, telling me to catch another hour or two and then get up and get some breakfast. He was going to go set up and start cooking for the reception. When he returned, he was sweaty, but looked happy enough. He took a quick shower, and we each grabbed a piece of fruit from the picked over continental breakfast, to tide us over, and left for the funeral.

I had anticipated the people I didn't know approaching me, and hugging me… I had anticipated seeing Jim and Marlene in their caskets… I had anticipated the service, and the burial… anticipated how it would hurt to see them lowered into a cold, empty ground… I had even anticipated how the entire event was likely to make me think of my father's funeral… one of only two other funerals I had ever attended.

I did not anticipate seeing Tyler.

And so when I entered the church, hand-in-hand with Gil, and walked slowly to the front, glancing around at the people gathered in the pews—their friends and Jim's sister and her family, community members and Jim's old coworkers—I nearly collapsed upon seeing Tyler with his family. Gil noticed, but probably attributed my stumbling steps to my grief. He wrapped an arm around me and guided me to the front, where I sat in agony, my mind reeling.

I didn't _want_ to see him. I couldn't _handle_ seeing him… not on this day. But I knew him, and I knew he would come talk to me. I just… didn't know what to expect from the conversation. I didn't know what he would expect. …Not knowing made it worse.

I didn't cry throughout the service—Jim's sister gave the eulogy, because I couldn't—and the drive to the cemetery was quiet. But as they were lowered into the ground to the sound of a gently murmured prayer, I suddenly felt my entire body trembling as sobs wracked my body and I collapsed against Gil, trying to keep my mourning silent, at least. We were the last to leave, Gil waiting gently and patiently until I had gotten control over myself, and then leading me to the car.

He drove back to their home rather quickly, which made me glance at him in surprise. "Are you in a hurry?"

He inclined his head a little reluctantly. "There's no one to unlock the door, so… people are going to be waiting to get into the house for the reception. Everything's ready to go… I almost wonder if I shouldn't have just left it unlocked, but…"

"It's fine, Gil. They can wait. …Thank you, for doing all of this. I… God, I don't know where I'd be right now without you."

He takes my hand gently, and slowly turns onto Jim and Marlene's street. There are lots of cars parked out front, yet everyone seems to be inside already. I raise an eyebrow. "I thought you said you'd locked it…'

His eyes narrow. "I did. I'm certain I did…"

I shrug softly, and get out of the car, taking his hand as I meet him on his side, and we walk slowly into the house. I'm surprised at what I see—chairs have been pulled from other rooms to fill up the dining area, so there's more seating—and the dining table is in the kitchen, with its extra leaf out, and there is a literal buffet spread out on it and most of the available space on the small counter, people moving through and filling their plates quietly. I look up at him. "You're my hero, did you know that?"

He smiles. "Go sit and talk… I'll grab us both a plate." I nod, gratefully, and move to sit next to Jim's sister—Julie—as she's one of the few people I know, and one of the even fewer that I'd be willing to speak to. However, she's enthralled in a conversation about gardening with a neighbor lady, and so I can't avoid talking to Tyler's mother, who is immediately sitting next to me in the empty seat I had intended for Gil. I turn to her, forcing a smile.

"Sara, honey, it's so good to see you. It's been so long… I thought we'd see you around town in the summers, visiting, at least…"

I shrug, softly. "I didn't like the dorms… and it didn't make sense to live here in the summers if I was paying rent on an apartment year round… It's, uh… it's good to see you too." And it actually was… she was older, but she had aged well—being in her presence, with her motherly voice exactly as I remember it, made me feel nostalgic. I wanted to go back to living with Jim and Marlene and feeling like everything in my life had a set meaning and pattern and direction.

She smiles brightly. "Well, tell me everything! Last I heard you'd gone off to Harvard… I assume you're not still there?"

I shake my head. "No, I got my undergrad there, and then transferred to Berkeley. I graduated in May."

"So you've been back in the area for a while?"

I nod again, starting to look around for Gil—he's still in line. "Four years, about."

"I would have expected to see you around more…"

I feel a muscle in my jaw tense. She's really pushing that issue, isn't she? "I've been busy with work and school…" Maybe it's not fair of me, to be upset. Maybe I'm being emotional—irrational—because she's pointing out my biggest regret—that I hadn't visited them more—over and over…

"What are you doing, by the way? Silly me, I didn't even ask. I know how important your career was to you…"

My eyes narrow—I'm not certain if she's stating a fact or being snide with me. Her smile is sweet and expressionless. I bite my bottom lip, I'm sure I'm being oversensitive. "I, uh… I work in forensics. I'm a crime scene investigator…"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "So, you're… you're like a cop? You didn't need ten years of college for that…"

I clear my throat, uncomfortably, glancing over at Gil again—he's half-way down the table. "No, I… I work with cops, and I had to do the formal training, but… I'm a scientist. I use science to put together clues and reconstruct a crime, to prove guilt or innocence… You _do_ need college to do what I do. I'm very good at my job."

She smiles almost sadly, but there's a pitying behind it. "I'm sure you are, dear. We've just missed you so much… Now, are you seeing anyone? Spending ten years in college ought to have given you ample opportunity to fall in love… though I suppose_, _now, that biological clock is ticking…"

I'm thoroughly alarmed, and I don't know why this woman is baiting me on the day of my foster parents' funeral. I feel tears prick against my eyes, and I can't tell if they're in grief or anger. I shake my head slowly. "Uh… I'm only twenty-seven. My biological clock is _not_ ticking."

She smiles kindly now, her eyebrows rising as if I'm overreacting to her statement. "No, sweetheart, of course not. I just meant, if you hadn't met anyone _yet_… well, you want to date for a while, a year or two, and then there's a year, year and a half, to plan a wedding… and you want to be married for a least a year or two before you have the first baby…. And you don't want to have children after the age of thirty-five, the rate of birth defects go dramatically up, because the eggs just get too _old_, plus, you'd be such an old mother, you know? You'd be fifty-three when your first child graduated from high school_, _at_ least_!

"When you and Tyler were together, forgive me dear, a mother just can't forget is all… I was certain you two would be giving me grandbabies by the time you were twenty-three. I should have a four year on my lap right now, a two-year old getting food with daddy, and maybe another on the way… don't you think?"

My eyes are wide as saucers and I'm still shaking my head slowly, though I'm not even sure what she's said, really. I can't wrap my head around it—I only know that I feel constricted, and my breath is coming in short bursts, like I can't inhale deeply, and the room is spinning slightly. And then—there's a gentle hand on my arm, and my symptoms disappear. I look up, and Gil is there, balancing two paper plates in one hand and looking concerned.

"Sara, honey, are you okay?" I nod, slowly, breathing deeply, and he takes the seat that Julie has now vacated without my noticing it. He silently passes me my plate of food while looking between the woman and me. I draw in a deep breath, remembering myself.

"Uh, Gil, this is Lori Hall. I… dated… her son, in high school. Mrs. Hall, this is Dr. Gilbert Grissom."

His eyebrows raise, both at my explanation of my relationship to her and also at my use of his title. She raises her eyebrows as well, though I don't exactly know why. They shake hands and exchange nice-to-meet-you's, and I draw in another deep breath. This is uncomfortable.

"So, Dr. Grissom—"

"Gil, please."

"Gil. Are you a medical doctor, or…"

He chuckles. "No, no. I have my PhD in biology. I'm a crime scene investigator."

"Ah. Like Sara here. She was just telling me why she needed _ten years_ of college to work in law enforcement…"

I feel my jaw tense, and Gil's eyes narrow, just slightly. "The thing about being a CSI, Mrs. Hall, is… the more you know, the more _able_ you are… her years of education are invaluable in her profession."

I beam, and she coughs and smiles again. The woman could smile through an earthquake. "Of course. Now, are the two of you married, or…"

"Oh… no…" I say, while Gil shakes his head, a tight smile on his face. She smiles. Of course she eff-ing smiles.

"Oh, perhaps I misinterpreted your relationship… are you two involved?"

I open my mouth and then close it, uncertain how to respond—the obvious answer was no, but it didn't feel like it was that simple, anymore. He waits for me to be rendered completely speechless, and then gives the woman across from us—beaming like the Cheshire cat—an answer. "More or less."

I smile, and almost laugh, at her confused look, and then take a bite of my turkey sandwich to keep from laughing further. Gil smiles and takes my hand. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I think we're going to go eat outside, on the porch… fresh air, you know."

And we move away from the awful woman.

Her son, however, is out on the porch. I stop, abruptly, and Gil almost runs into me, looking in alarm from me to the only other person outside—and then he seems to understand. I start to back up, but Tyler has already turned, and he says, "Sara?" with too much excitement.

It's all I can do to keep from cringing.

"Tyler. …Hi. I, uh… didn't expect to see you out here."

Reluctantly, we both move forward, resting our plates on the wide railing of their little porch. Tyler takes a step towards me, once my hands are free, as if he means to hug me. I take an unconscious step back, against Gil's chest, and Tyler's eyes flicker to Gil and back to me, assessing our relationship. Gil notices, and I feel his right hand land possessively on my right hip, steadying me, and then remaining there as if to lay a claim on me.

Tyler's eyes flicker to Gil's hand, as well. "I… was hoping I'd get a chance to talk to you. How, uh… how've you been?"

I swallow, hard. "Good. Good. You? …It's been a while."

He nods. "Ten years… I… I missed you, when you moved to Boston. …You were my best friend."

I smile, awkwardly, at the sentiment, and search for a change of subject. "So, uh… what are you doing, these days? Where did you end up going to school?"

"San Francisco State. I'm actually a Chemistry teacher at our old high school… strange to be there every day and not see you." He chuckles. "I always struggle when students in my AP lab ask for help on the math…"

I make an effort to include Gil in the conversation, partly because I'm being polite, and partly because I don't want to feel like I'm alone in the interaction. I need back up. "Wow, that's… great. I bet you're a great teacher. Um," I turn to the man behind me, who still rests a comforting palm on my waist, "Tyler and I were lab partners, in AP Chem. I always had to do the math problems for him." I explain quickly. He nods, and glances between us. I try to give a reassuring smile.

"So," Tyler continues, obviously disliking that this is a three-way conversation. "What did you end up majoring in? Chemistry? Physics? Biology? Calculus? …English?"

I smile, again awkwardly. "Physics… and, then I went to Berkeley for grad school. Physics and forensics."

He looks surprised. "You've been back in California? For how long?"

I shrug. "Four years… four and half, now, I guess."

His eyes narrow, and look down, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They slide into his pants pockets, and I catch myself smiling, genuinely, at the familiar gesture—he always did that when he was uncomfortable, or struggling to voice his thoughts. "I guess I would've thought you'd visit, if you were in the same state."

"I visited Jim and Marlene..."

His narrowed eyes rise back up to meet mine, and then flicker to Gil again. "I'm sorry, I never introduced myself. Tyler Hall." He reaches out and Gil reaches around me to shake his hand—they both grip too tightly, and I feel suddenly uncomfortable having Gil meeting Tyler. I don't want Gil to leave, of course… I just want Tyler to not be here.

"Gil Grissom." He responds, politely, and then his right hand breaks from Tyler's and falls back to rest on the small of my back this time. I force a smile, glancing between the men.

"So… forensics? I, uh… I guess I don't even really know what that is."

"I, uh… I'm a CSI— a crime scene investigator. It's… using science to solve crimes, basically."

He nods, a strange smile coming to his lips—almost arrogant. "Oh, right. I can see you doing that. You wouldn't have been satisfied if you weren't saving somebody…"

My eyes narrow, and I realize with surprise that he's right. I had never set out to find a career in any type of service… I had never known that I was drawn to that, but it had been the reason I had chosen forensics. Using science for the greater good of society…

It makes me uncomfortable that he knows me so well. I don't want to be known. Especially not by him… anymore.

Gil speaks for me, because I've apparently lost my ability. "We are the victim's last voice."

Tyler looks at him in surprise, while I look up at him in adoration. The phrase is one he used in his first lecture, the day we met… I had written it down, because it had meant so much to me.

"So, uh… you're a CSI too, then? Did you two meet at work?"

I say, "No." as Gil says, "Yes." We look at each other in surprise, and laugh. I turn to Tyler, who looks disgruntled, and try to explain. "We, uh… met at a forensic academy conference. So, it was work related… it'd be like… you meeting someone at a teacher's convention."

"So then you don't work… together?"

Gil speaks up again. "Not at the moment. But there should be a day-shift position opening in the Vegas lab soon. I have a mind to convince her to apply… she'd be a phenomenal asset to the lab."

My eyes are wide at Gil's words, but I push them aside—I can analyze them when I'm away from this stressful encounter. Tyler glances between us, clearly frustrated that Gil keeps speaking for the pair of us. "Where do you work now, _Sara_?"

I almost laugh, but disguise it in a smile. "The San Francisco crime lab."

"So really close, then… Maybe I'll have to drive into the city sometime, take you to dinner, so we can catch up."

I step back against Gil's chest again. "I… I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"… Sara," he steps forward, apparently no longer willing to be subtle. He takes my hand, pulling me forward. He takes me off guard, and so I step forward automatically, but then pull my hand away, once I realize. "You… you can't still be mad about our break up. It was… ten years ago. I'm sorry about everything… can't we be friends again, catch up on the decade together we've allowed ourselves to lose?"

But I'm shaking my head, and my hands are shaking too. "I… I'm not still mad, but… but I can't trust you, Ty." He smiles, despite my words, at the use of his old nickname.

"Sara… you're… god, you're even more beautiful than you were at sixteen… more beautiful than I could have imagined. I've… I haven't met anyone, in the ten years we've been apart, who made me feel the way you did… that's not something I can just ignore, honey."

Unlike him, I cringe at the reuse of an old term of endearment. Gil's the only one who calls me honey now. I step back into him, yet again, and he seems relieved—both hands now coming to rest on my hips. "Tyler, I… I don't feel the same way. I've… been with others, since you… been in love, since you." The hurt in his eyes is genuine, and I suddenly feel guilty. I sigh. "Ty…" He cuts me off, his voice a little louder.

"With who? This guy?" He gestures angrily at Gil, and my feelings of guilt disappear. "He looks like he could be your father, Sara!"

My eyes narrow, and I feel my temper rising. "_No_, he doesn't. And you wouldn't know this about me, because you haven't talked to me in a decade, but I _like_ older men. Now, I know you're lashing out because you're hurt but—"

"What about your first time? I seem to remember you _liking_ me quite a bit that day on the beach. I thought a girl never forgot her first…"

I roll my eyes, glancing around wildly, as if to figure out where this is all coming from.

"Wow, good for you, very impressive—you gave a horny sixteen year old girl an orgasm. Just so you know, no matter _what_ your mother tells you, they're not that rare… in fact, they're pretty much expected nowadays, and, _did you know_, more than just the missionary position is allowed now too! Crazy thing, all this sexual progress we've made since the fifties… But no, Tyler, I haven't forgotten _my_ first. I wonder… have you forgotten _your_ first time? Because I seem to remember _that_ being the problem—our firsts didn't happen to be the same event."

Gil's hands are tight on my waist—I don't know whether it's to keep me from slapping the man or to calm me down, but it seems to do both, and I take a deep breath, feeling the tears in my eyes. I blink rapidly. When Tyler speaks, his voice is much softer now—it takes me back ten years, to the way he used to talk to me on the beach.

"If you felt nothing for me, Sara, you wouldn't still be so upset over what I did… Let me take you out to dinner, even if it's just as friends at first… I know you're not with this guy, even if he's the closest thing to a boyfriend you've got at the moment. I know how you are… you like to be held, hold hands, exchange soft kisses, almost constantly. …If he knew how he was allowed to touch you, he'd have kissed you sometime today—_especially today._ That tells me he doesn't know, which means neither of you really know what you are right now. Sara… honey, give me a chance. Let me make up for what I did to you."

But I'm shaking my head, turning my body so that my side is tucked under Gil's arm, which wraps around my shoulder protectively. I swallow hard, trying to speak without the tears in my voice, but I know it's failing.

"I'm still upset… because I allowed myself to trust you, and you ripped that trust apart—just like everyone else who came before you. …I'm still upset because there's a man back in Boston whose heart I broke because I'm even _more_ afraid of men today than I was as a fifteen year old girl at your lab table. …I'm still upset, Tyler Hall, because I gave you control over our relationship, and you spent years holding us back so that our first time together would be perfect, and then you slept with someone else days after proving what a sexist pig you were."

Tears are streaming down my face, and though my voice has only risen just a little since I began speaking, Tyler is physically shrinking from me, as if I were screaming, but I'm not stopping now.

"I'm. still. fucking. upset… because I now have to control _everything_—I can't let my guard down for one goddamned minute, even with a man as gentle and caring and kind as Gil—because _you_ taught me that giving up control means giving up yourself. …Don't… don't _ever_ talk to me again, okay?"

I start to turn, to pull Gil back into the house, but I stop, looking back at Tyler. "Oh, and Gil knows he can touch me any _way_ and any _where_ he likes… and he's a lot better at it then you ever were."

I pull Gil, almost forcefully, back into the house with me and into Jim and Marlene's bedroom, past the stunned faces of guests, but I can't bring myself to care about them at the moment. I proceed to lock the door and then bury my face in his chest, desperately, agonizingly, excessively.

His arms wrap around me, protectively, and then I'm sobbing again.


	43. Completion

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: :) This chapter should make you all very happy. So... if you're happy, leave me a review, so I can be happy too! hehe!

* * *

Chapter 15: Completion

When she had exhausted herself, I slowly moved us to sit on the floor—she was in no condition to face the rest of the guests any time soon. I leaned back against the door, pulling her into my lap—she straddled me, laying her head against my shoulder as I held her, her breath still coming in shuddering gasps and her body trembling. The position is intimate, but non-sexual… it's the easiest way to wrap her up within myself, and provide the most protection and comfort I can, and I gladly do.

Within a half an hour I could hear Jim's sister bidding guests farewell, and after another ten minutes, I heard her and her family walk out as well, the door closing a little too loudly. Sara lifts her head at the sound, meeting my eyes for the first time since we'd entered the room.

"…I'm sorry… about that." She looks down again, and I catch her chin, tilting her face up to look at me.

"Don't be sorry, Sara. He was being an asshole, and trying to manipulate you… I don't blame you for being upset."

She smiles, a bit awkwardly, but holds my gaze. "I… never told you about him."

I shrug. "You can, now, if you want to… but you don't have to. I gathered quite a bit from your… conversation, earlier."

"…He was my first… everything. First kiss right up to first… you know." She blushes, and I find it to be the most intoxicating color across her checks. My heart begins to race, but I nod seriously, listening—because I know that Sara doesn't open up easily. "When I graduated, I… I had gotten more than a full ride to Harvard. How many foster kids from small town public schools get above and beyond a full ride to fucking Harvard, you know? …Opportunity of a lifetime."

I nod again, gently running my hands over her back, trying to keep her calm as she relays her story.

"But he had a year of high school left, and said his parents couldn't afford out-of-state tuition anyway… so he couldn't come to Boston with me. I tried to tell him we could make it work. …He told me that… he wanted to be enough for me to be willing to give it all up. …But I wasn't enough for him to make those sacrifices either. And… I really loved him, Gil. I… I hadn't trusted anyone in… years, before him, and I would have given up everything in the world but my education… because it meant that I would never end up back where I started, and if I had children, neither would they."

She draws in a shuddering breath, her tear-brimmed eyes flickering to me in apprehension. There's a lot that she's given away, unintentionally, but I know well enough not to ask. She needs time to come out of her shell to people… questions make her defensive. Instead, I file it away for later consideration.

"So, he… made the argument that _his_ education was… more important than mine, because, as the man, he would provide the 'primary income,' because my income would be unreliable, with all those babies I would be popping out." Her eyes close tightly, and the tears that have threatened again slide down slowly—almost poetically. My hands frame her face and my thumbs wipe them gently away. I feel like I'm beginning to understand, at least in part, what happened the day she left—I had called my income the _primary_ one…

"…I had told him I didn't even know if I wanted to have children, and he had said he didn't care if we did or not. …Yet I was expected to give up the only thing I had that I could be proud of… the only thing that was _just_ mine… just in case my uterus got in the way of our finances."

More tears fall, and I draw her against my chest. "He's a fucking high school teacher for god's sake! _Really?_ I was supposed to give up _Harvard_ for a public school teacher's salary?" And then she's sobbing against me again, and my hands are stroking her back, waiting for her to exhaust her grief once more.

When she finally calms, she meets my eyes again, and she looks apprehensive. "…I'm… I'm sorry, Gil. I'm sure our whole fight was really… uncomfortable, for you. And… and now I'm in here crying and…" She wipes at more tears, with the back of her hand—a very childlike gesture. "It really isn't about him. It's…" she winces. "He just… _took_ so much from me."

And I nod, understanding completely what she means, because she had spelled it out much more explicitly to him—he had taken away what capacity for trust she had once had, he had made her afraid—and then smile softly, again guiding her chin until her eyes meet mine again.

"You don't need to be sorry, Sara. You're a strong, passionate woman, and you weren't going to let him manipulate you. That's… one of the things I love the most about you. And," I chuckle softly, "You defended my honor quite admirably, if I remember correctly."

She grins, almost wickedly, and then it dwindles into a look I'm not sure I can define—confusion, but also… hopefulness, perhaps? I know the question is in my eyes, and she answers with a question of her own. "…Do you?"

My hands cradle her face again, thumbs brushing over her beautiful cheek bones. "Do I what, honey?"

She blushes beneath my palms. "You said that… that I was strong and passionate and that… it was…" she lets her sentence trail into silence, but I finish my own statement in my head. I had told her it was one of the things I loved most about her.

My heart begins to race, and I draw in a deep breath, moving my face forward unconsciously and her eyes are locked on mine. I can feel her heart beating as rapidly as mine, and this gives me the confidence it takes to speak, despite how dry my throat is. "…Of course I love you, Sara. I've loved you since the moment I saw you…" I shake my head in disbelief. "I think it's been rather obvious, honey…"

And then her lips are pressed tightly against mine, her chest flush to mine, and I am the happiest man in the world once again. I gasp and my hands run through her hair, down her back, clutching desperately at her hips and pulling her tight against me. A breathy moan escapes her lips, and I feel desire rising in me like a tidal wave, and in the next moment she's on her back, on the floor, with me above her, my hands already pushing at the bottom of her shirt, my fingers trembling at the feel of her—she's even softer than I remember.

She moans into my mouth as soon as my hands make contact, even though they've hardly moved an inch up her abdomen. And then she breaks the kiss, her eyes out of focus and bright with desire. "Not… not here, Gil. Not in their bedroom… the couch…"

I shake my head. I don't want our first time back together to be on a couch… or the floor. "Let's go back to the hotel, honey. I can wait…"

She shakes her head this time, and I see the desperation in her eyes—something between grief and extreme need. "_I_ can't."

I think for a moment, trying to ignore that she is now slowly rotating her hips, with me between her legs—the pressure makes cognition a struggle. "Okay… uh… then we'll… we'll… shower? How about the shower?" That, at least, doesn't make me feel like I'm taking her in a place of opportunity—like having her is more important than loving her—the shower can be romantic…

She nods, and I have a feeling that she would have agreed no matter what I had suggested. Still, those gyrating hips leave me no room to back out now, and I'm on my feet in a moment, dragging her back through the hallway and into the bathroom, pushing her hard against the wall once we've entered, my lips capturing hers again.

It's been far too long since I've been allowed to touch her intimately, and I have truly felt like a starving man, given a feast, and then expected to go back to starvation, as if I'd never known fullness.

But her urgency matches mine, and within moments we've managed to stumble, locked in each other's arms, to the shower and turn the water on, and then it becomes apparent that clothes need to be removed. I separate from her, allowing myself a brief moment to look deeply into her eyes—chocolate eyes that have haunted my dreams since she left.

She smiles, biting her bottom lip, and lifts her arms over her head. I gently clutch the bottom of her shirt, sliding it up and over her head and arms, drawing in a sharp breath at the sight of her.

"Sara… you're… you're even more beautiful than I remember, sweet."

She blushes, reaching behind herself and removing her bra and slowly sliding it down her slender arms. I swallow hard, and she grins. "Too bad I'm not wearing red lace…"

And I chuckle, starting to pull off my jacket and tie as steam billows out of the shower. "I promise you, I'm not even remotely disappointed…"

She grins, tugging the tie out of my grasp and removing it herself, and then letting her hands fall to my chest and slowly start to unbutton my shirt. My eyes take the opportunity to take in her appearance in greater detail—she's left her hair down, and curly, a few errant curls pinned up, away from her face, above her ears. Her face in flushed, her soft lips bright and slightly swollen from my attentions, her eyes deep and endless, reflecting my own absolute devotion back to me, and my heart swells at this realization.

I capture her lips in another kiss, because I can't resist, and she takes the opportunity to slide the shirt over my shoulders and down my arms, letting it fall onto the cold tile beneath us. Her nails rake gently over my chest, and I shiver, pulling her tight against me, reveling in the feeling of her chest against mine.

But after a moment, she moves away from me—taking a full two steps back—and then slowly begins to unzip the slate-colored skirt. I shiver more—at first glance, you would never expect Sara to be into strip teases, and she certainly didn't dance or strut… but on more than one occasion she had intentionally undressed in front of me, letting me look, but not touch.

I smiled softly, my eyes taking in the long line of her neck, the bare innocence of her collar bone, the sweeping elegance of exposed shoulders and slender arms, soft hands, the goose bumps teasing down her chest from the chill of the room and the heat of the steam, to two perfect breasts which, although modest, look almost large on her lithe figure, hardened to rosy points under my gaze.

A gently curving abdomen and soft, kissable stomach lead into rounded hips, over which gray fabric is slipping, revealing a silky white thong—the first time I've ever seen her wear this kind of underwear. I feel myself trembling again, a hot coiling desire in the pit of my stomach, as she toes out of her black heels and steps out of the skirt that has pooled eloquently about her ankles, imprinting her image to memory: sheer thigh-highs, topped with lace, and the elusive and surprising undergarments perfectly accentuate one of the most beautiful parts of her—those long, shapely legs, which I intimately remember running my fingertips over, tasting with my lips, moving up to her perfect, intoxicating apex.

How had I gone a single day without this woman in my bed? How had I drawn breath, without this beauty in my life? My eyes move back to her face, and I find her blushing under my worshipping eyes—she had wanted arousal, she had not expected adulation.

Without thinking, my hands move to my belt as my feet slowly slough off my shoes and socks. I step out of my pants, and move to her in only boxers, falling to my knees before her and softly kissing her stomach. Her hands find my hair, wrapping themselves into my curls and I trail my fingertips up from her ankles, over calves and knees and thighs, pausing to play over the lace at the top of the stockings, and then moving over her hips, stopping at the waist band of her panties, and sliding them down with just as much care, until she had stepped forward and out of them, putting herself as close to me as possible.

I rise slowly, kissing my way up, and stopping before my lips can fall over hers, my hands slipping off my underwear before coming to rest on her hips again. In one fluid movement, they move down to her thighs and bring her up, into my arms. She clutches at my shoulders in surprise and alarm, and I step us into the steam-filled shower, finally taking her mouth for my own again, pressing her into the wall, the hot water falling around us.

I kissed her endlessly, senselessly, slipping into absolute oblivion, pushing my body against her and losing myself in the moment—but Sara had always been impatient, and this time was no different. She arched her back to push herself hard against my erection, and when my deep gasp broke the kiss, she took the opportunity.

"Gil… make love to me, please? I need to feel you… Make love to me." With a little maneuvering, I positioned myself outside her opening and slowly slid until I was buried completely, gritting my teeth against the sensation of her tightening around me already, a grin on her face telling me she knew exactly what it was doing to me.

"Mean, Sara. You are just plain mean." She giggles, and then slowly pulls back until I'm almost completely out of her, and then slides back forward, until I'm buried again—impressive, considering the position she was in. A low moan escapes my lips as my head falls to her shoulder, and I can feel her chest shake as she giggles more.

"…I'm sorry, baby. Let me show you how nice I can be…"She starts rocking harder against me, sending electricity from my lower abdomen up my spine, down my legs, through my arms, and to the tips of every tiny strand of hair on my body. In a moment I'm meeting her, thrust-for-thrust, and she lets me take over the rhythm, my mouth playing over her neck and shoulders and collarbone, laying down adorations as her breathing increases and her nails dig into my shoulders. I recognize the actions—she's close.

I had really wanted to take my time, it being our first time back together… but it had been too long since we'd been together—our collective urgency overruled my hesitancy.

I increase my speed, gripping her hips tightly, feeling my own release fast approaching. I slip a hand between us with some difficulty, pressing between her dark curls in rhythmic circles, wanting to make sure she goes before I do, and I'm rewarded a moment later as her persistent moans turn into desperate screams of ecstasy and her body clamps around me tightly, throwing me violently into my own orgasm. I bite down on her shoulder the pleasure is so intense and she seems to rock even harder against me when I do, deepening my oblivion until there is nothing real in this world except the feel of her body against me and around me.

When I finally drag my head up, pulling myself desperately into full awareness, her head is leaning back against the wall, a look of absolute fulfillment etched on each and every feature, the water still rushing in streams across that perfect body. She opens her eyes at my movement, and I feel a shift somewhere deep in my chest. I know, without a doubt, that there will never be another woman who can affect me the way she does… that I will never look into those gorgeous brown eyes again without remembering the way they look, heavy with contentment, deep and dreamy in her afterglow.

I kiss her softly, and take a small step back, feeling myself slide out of her, before slowly lowering her to her feet. I make the mistake, however, of assuming she can stand by herself—with wet nylon-clad feet and weak-knees from our lovemaking, the minute her feet hit the floor, she's slipping, and I'm catching her in surprise. Once certain that she isn't going to fall on her face, I look down at the offensive hosiery and chuckle softly. I move to my knees, slowly pulling down each of her thigh-highs and slipping them off her feet, before rising back up to her, a grin on my face.

She's smiling as well—not in humor, as I am, but still softly… amorously. My own smile gentles, in response, and she takes my face in her hands, kissing me just as gently. "I love you too, Gil. I've always loved you."


	44. Merry Christmas

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

A/N: Thank all of you for all of the reviews! They truly meant the world to me! And, as they all came so fast, I was motivated to do some proof-reading tonight, so there's another chapter! :)

The only problem with this enthusiasm is that I only have up to chapter 20 finished, so I need to start writing! lol

Also, for those who asked, I will be taking them to Vegas. I'm doing my best to follow the series as close as I can--so everything we saw in the episodes, will happen as it did, but maybe with a little interesting subtext due to the baggage we didn't know they had... and the events that take place between them, that we didn't get to see.

There will be no season one sex, to answer the other question... just a ridiculous amount of sexual tension. Hehe!

Please review and let me know what you think!

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Chapter 16: Merry Christmas

The rest of the week was back to normal—or, at least, what normal was like with Gil in my life. I still felt like I was stealing time from someone else's life, but this time I was content to take it. I didn't feel the need to question it or be suspicious… I didn't even really feel like I was hiding part of myself anymore, though I was. It just felt right.

He helped with everything—sorting through their things, packing up items I wanted to keep, items for Jim's sister, items for goodwill… he talked to the real estate agent, made the arrangements, paid for the hotel room and our meals and held me each night whether we fell asleep after exhausting ourselves in the throes of passion or I cried myself to sleep, telling him that Jim and Marlene had been just about the best thing that had ever happened to me.

The day after their funeral we spent going through the house, but that night he took me out to eat for Christmas Eve and then dragged me to a store to buy twinkle lights. When we'd curled up in bed with wine in plastic hotel cups and only the twinkle lights, spread across the functional surfaces of the hotel room, to illuminate the room, he pulled out a wrapped package and my eyes widened in surprise.

"Gil… you didn't need to get me anything."

He shakes his head. "We were spending Christmas together… I wasn't going to not get you anything… Open it, please?"

I grin. "Let me grab yours out of my suitcase, okay?" He looks as surprised as I had felt, but my explanation was the same—how could I have gone to his home for Christmas and not brought anything? I retrieve a large box from my sizeable suitcase and bring it back to the bed, passing it to him. He smiles, taking it.

"Thank you."

I roll my eyes. "Don't thank me yet. You might hate it…"

He shakes his head. "Never. Now, please, open yours. …I hope you like it, it's… well, kind of a strange assortment."

I grin, cuddling up close to him. "You know, I never liked Christmas. I mean, I liked it with Jim and Marlene, but there weren't many of those, you know? Two when I lived with them, and then…when I moved back to Berkeley, I would sometimes make the day trip. …Marlene said it made her sad, but… even knowing that, I felt like being there was… intrusive…like I was invading their holiday."

He runs a hand over my back, gently. "You'll have to spend holidays with me from now on… you'll never be intruding."

I smile, and feel a blush covering my cheeks. "…Promise?"

"Always." He kisses me softly. "No more stalling, Sara."

I giggle. "Okay, okay." I gingerly lift the tape and pull the paper off to find a long white box, about the size of a large clothing box, from a department store. I shake it experimentally, and there's a lot of noise. "…This sounds like more than one thing."

"Good investigating, Miss Sidle, but I already told you it was an "assortment," didn't I?"

I elbow him playfully in the ribs. "Fine, fine." I pull the lid of the box off, and find everything inside wrapped in tissue paper. I grin. "You put a lot of effort into this, huh?" He rolls his eyes, about to urge me on again, so I snatch up an item at random, to stop him. It feels like a small, hard-cover book. And, surprise, it is. When I slide the tissue paper off and turn it, to appraise it, however, I see that it's a copy of Of Mice and Men. An _old_ copy. I look at him.

"It was one of the original publications. You… told me it was a favorite and… well, we have some good memories, surrounding it." He blushes, a little, like he's nervous about the gift, but I smile and kiss him quickly, to reassure him, my mind automatically falling back to his office and the leather chaise therein.

"It's amazing, Gil. But… it's too much."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not. It's the biggest present, I promise, okay?"

"…Okay."

And it's true—the rest of the items are little, though thoughtful: a picture frame, with our beach picture in it, an old movie I had told him—to his great shock and alarm—I hadn't seen, a new pair of Harvard sweat pants—I'd told him in November that I'd torn a big hole in mine, and that I'd have to get around to ordering another pair, and a dark blue UCLA sweatshirt that I'd all but lived in, at his townhouse, before I'd left…

I lifted it softly to my face. "It still smells like you…you didn't have to give me this." I took another deep breath, and noticed one more small item left. I pick it up and unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a container of what looks like fingerprinting dust, except that it's bright red. I glance at him, curiously.

He grins a little sheepishly. "It's fingerprinting dust that I… I make myself. I know that sounds kind of crazy but… well, it works better! And… I know it probably isn't protocol, in San Francisco, but… if you have it in your kit, then you'll always think of me, when you're at work."

I feel my heart melting softly, at his words, and I smile. "Do you use this, in Vegas?"

"Only with really elusive cases…"

"Thank you, Gil. This… all of this, really, is too much."

He smiles, softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "No, honey, not for you."

I blush again, scooting up to his side again. "Open yours now."

He smiles tauntingly, turning to me. "Should I stall like you did? Make you wait to see if I like it…"

I roll my eyes, pushing the box into his hands a little roughly. "Gil."

He chuckles. "Alright…" He tears the wrapping paper away a little less neatly than I had—he does it with the air of someone who has unwrapped presents—expected presents—in abundance all his life. He doesn't need to open the box—the picture on the outside says it all.

"A terrarium?"

I grin. "You told me you had wanted a tarantula, for your office… I figured I'd get the house, and then when we get a chance, I'll take you to the pet store to pick out your own spider. I wanted to… pick up all the supplies and everything, but I didn't know what to get… I figured it was best if you made the selections."

He beams, and I feel amazing. His excitement is downright childlike. "You're really going to buy me a _tarantula?_" …He might as well be asking about his first bike.

I laugh. "As long as I never ever have to touch it."

He mock-pouts. "But who will he call _Mommy_?"

I shudder and then shiver—the latter not from the spider reference, but because he's kissing me with as much passion and fervency as he ever has. He tries to push me down onto the bed, but I fall on my box of gifts, and we break apart, laughing. I bite my bottom lip, an idea occurring to me.

"Gil, wait… I think I have another present for you."

He looks confused. "Sara, you don't—"

"I know. I didn't plan it, but… well, maybe it was just wishful thinking… You clear off the bed, I'll be right back."

I stop briefly at the closet, to snatch a few articles of clothing from my suitcase, and then rush into the bathroom, changing quickly because I don't want to keep him waiting. When I step back out into the room, still illuminated by the twinkle lights, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for me. I smile when his jaw drops, aware that I'm having the desired effect.

I had purchased the red lingerie on a whim, thinking I would wear it when I missed Gil… maybe even describe it to him over instant messaging in one of _those_ conversations... It was all lace—narrow spaghetti straps leading down to elastic lace that clung to every inch of my skin, see-through all the way down, stopping only an inch below my underwear. I had grabbed a black lace bra and black lace panties, which I had packed for no particular reason, just in case I needed to be without underwear lines in one of my outfits. But I thought they'd be a nice touch, under the red… and apparently I had not been mistaken.

He stands, abruptly, as I come close to him, and struggles to close his mouth. "…Wow, Sara…"

I grin. "Merry Christmas, Gil, You did say you had a weakness for red lace…"

I don't know how I made it to the bed—he had nearly tackled me into the wall beside it—but I know that by the time my head fell onto the pillows he was completely naked and had somehow snaked my bra off and out of the lingerie, without even lowering the straps.

I was lost in the feel of his mouth against mine, his hands on my body, his hips pressing him up hard, between my legs, until he finally lost his patience and ripped the remaining black lace from my body, freeing me to his fingers and, after only a moment, the entire, glorious length of him.

He left the red lace on, though by the time I was peaking my third orgasm, he was desperately trying to remove it, with little success, and, upon coming down, I slip it over my head in an act mercy. "Oh, thank god." He gasps out, starting to rock into me again and attaching his mouth to my newly exposed breasts.

Within minutes I can feel him shuddering inside me with every motion, and his mouth has stopped its attentions, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. "Oh, god, Sara… come, come Sara, please, I can't… I can't hold it, please… just… just once more… come for me."

His pleas, and my own realization at how hard he's working just to get me there one more time—the level of love and devotion that requires—sends me over and he comes hard into me, screaming out in both pleasure and what seems like it must almost be relief. We don't have words, as we slowly come down, exhausted. We separate, hot and sweaty, our breathing rapid, and by the time it has slowed, we're both asleep.


	45. Nightmares and Explanations

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, etc. But I should.

A/N: Anyone know what's coming? :)

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Chapter 17: Nightmares and Explanations

We spent the next day in our hotel room, sleeping in, renting movies, and ordering room service. We made love, several more times—as if we couldn't get enough of each other. I would not have said I was disinterested in sex, before Sara, but I had never needed to be with someone desperately, after only a few hours.

Each time we wrapped ourselves up in each other, it felt as though I'd been waiting months to have her, all over again. For that matter, I had never been with a woman who seemed to not only be willing but eager to make love so frequently… several times in a day had to be rare, right?

We only had a few days of vacation left—we met with the real estate agent, again, finished clearing out Jim and Marlene's home, made the trips to good will and loaded up her trunk and back seat with the boxes she wished to keep. The boxes for Jim's sister were sitting inside the entry way—she evidently had a key, as she had let the mourners in, after the funeral.

We drove back to San Francisco, and I couldn't possibly have told you much I had missed her little apartment, kept compulsively clean. The first night back I hadn't had time to appreciate how used to cooking in her kitchen I'd gotten, or how I knew that her books and movies were organized alphabetically, within their respective genres. I hadn't really understood how intimate it was that I knew the lotions in her medicine cabinet were stacked in careful rows, with her favorite on the far left all the way to her least favorite on the far right, or that I could tell you where she kept her tampons, and her birth control pills, and her time-of-the-month emergency chocolate supply.

But I appreciated it now, and it was true that day shift was supposed to have an opening in the next few months… with her education, her experience, and my recommendation, I couldn't believe that she wouldn't be hired, even with Ecklie as the supervisor. She was brilliant, how could he _not_ hire her? I found myself hoping again—planning for a future together, in Vegas.

She had a lot of furniture here, after all. Maybe we'd need a bigger place—the townhouse was a three bedroom, but the office was quite small, and with our combined books, there was no way there was enough room, and certainly not for her bed, even if it was only a double. Maybe we'd find a place with a real office, and the third bedroom could be another guest room or… or even a nursery.

I didn't know if Sara wanted children, and if she didn't I was certainly fine with that—I had given up the dream of a family after losing my second baby, but if she _did_ want children… well, I didn't think I was too old, yet. I had a few more years, hopefully, before people would assume that any infant I carried was my grandchild rather than my child.

Still, the idea of painting a nursery, assembling a crib… I couldn't help but be excited, even for just the possibility. And so I resolved that, before I left, I would explain whatever had sent her running from me in the first place—the only problem was that I didn't want to bring up her leaving me… I didn't want to remind her that she had found reason to run before, in case she decided she wanted to again.

I was deathly afraid of her leaving me again.

And so it was on my last night in San Francisco, with an early flight the next morning, I had determined I would talk to her. I _had_ to talk to her. …Because she would be harder to convince with the miles between us and I wasn't willing to risk it. I made her the pasta dish I had made the first night I'd cooked for her, complete with wine and candles, and we actually made it to the beach, a task we had never managed to complete the first time I had stayed with her.

What I was not prepared for was the truth behind one of the first things she'd ever told me—She liked sex on the beach, apparently, and with a little effort she found a secluded spot and dragged me down, into the sand with her, and proceeded to love me senseless.

We walked back home in a heady afterglow, giggling at ridiculous things, and tumbled into her bed, exhausted. I did not think of what I should have been talking about until she was already sleeping, and I was drifting off myself. …Apparently it was going to be a breakfast conversation. I double-checked that the alarm was set, so that we would have time for the discussion, and then let myself slip into a deep slumber, thinking that no matter how long or often I showered, I would probably never get all the sand off of my body.

What I didn't anticipate was the nightmare. Sara had had nightmares while sleeping with me before, but they were minor—I would never have known, then, if I hadn't been awake already. She had tossed her head on the pillow, and muttered or whimpered once or twice, and then slipped into a deeper and hopefully more peaceful sleep.

But tonight, it was entirely different—alarming, scary even. She had been curled against me, and I woke to feel her head tossing. I gently stroked her arms, to try to lull her into a more serene sleep, but then she was muttering "No, no, don't touch me… don't do this, please. No." And she was crying.

She didn't just _sound_ like she was crying, she was actually sobbing, her body wracked with the force of it, streams falling from her eyes in a torrent. And then she was thrashing—violently, kicking and throwing her arms, and I had to grab them and pin them to her sides to even get close enough to try to wake her.

And then she was screaming—a bloodcurdling thing like I'd never heard in my life. She sounded like she was dying, like she was in excruciating pain. And all the while I'm shaking her, shouting "Sara! Sara, honey, wake up… wake up, sweetheart, it's okay… please wake up, Sara. Sara!"

She jerks abruptly, her eyes fluttering open and her thrashing slowing and finally stopping altogether. "…Gil?" she asks, breaking free from my hold and frantically wiping the moisture from her cheeks, her breathing labored. I swallow hard.

"Yeah, I'm here honey. Are… are you okay?"

"I… Why? What, uh… what did I do?"

I look at her closely. She knows she had a nightmare… she's assessing the damage. Determining how much she has to explain… how little she can divulge. I purse my lips. "You were muttering 'no' and… and 'don't touch me, please don't do this…' and kicking, thrashing… screaming…"

Her face pales, though I don't know if it's in memory of the dream or because she's upset I was witness to it, but I wrap my arms around her. "It, uh… it was a…"

"Nightmare. I figured…" I don't ask, and I know she's waiting to see if I will. I bite the inside of my cheek, just to be certain that I won't.

She sighs heavily, and buries her face in my chest. "Oh, god, Gil, it was terrible!"

I take this as permission to ask, at the very least. "…Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shakes her head. "N-no… I don't ever want to think about it, ever again! Gil… oh god…"

I gently brush her hair from her face and the tears from beneath her eyes, wrapping her up in my body—even my legs intertwining with hers, so that she knows I'm there, completely. "…You don't have to relive it, honey, just… tell me what it's about…"

And she shakes her head again, but a sob breaks through her lips along with a name I'd only heard once before. "Ken."

I quiet her, and rock her, calm her and kiss her until she drifts back into an uneasy sleep, exhausted by the sobs that had wracked her body. Then, and only then, do I allow myself to process the information she's given me. Ken Fuller had been her only one night stand. She had been dreaming about him, saying 'don't touch me' and struggling as if her life depended on it. And there was a scar on her perineum that I could not imagine her getting from anything other than a violent rape or a difficult birth.

Either way, I just _knew_ somehow that it related back to him… and if she had been saying 'don't touch me…' my best guess was rape, rather than birth. That and her glaring lack of a baby… but then, I was a father or two without a child either. But I know I can't ask. I can't and I won't.

I barely slept—every time she twitched, murmured, or whimpered in her sleep, my eyes would flutter open and I would rock her and sing the lullaby my mother had sang to me—sang to Joshua—until she was deeply asleep once more. And the next morning, when the alarm went off and I rolled away from her to turn it off quickly, her eyes flickered open slowly and she looked exhausted, but happy that I was there.

"Hey."

I smile. "Hey."

"I, uh… I'm sorry about… last night."

I shake my head. "Don't be. I _want_ to be the one to hold you through your nightmares."

She sighs, softly. "I guess I… owe you some explanation." She looks border-line angry, though I can't imagine why or at whom the emotion is directed.

I shake my head again. "If you want to give me one, you can… but you don't owe me anything. But, uh… I did want to talk to you, about something, before I go…"

She looks apprehensive. "…Okay?"

"I, uh… Sara, I… I wanted to explain whatever it was… whatever secrets you thought I was keeping from you… when you left."

Now she shakes her head, going so far as to place a finger over my mouth when I open it to argue. "No, Gil… I don't need to know. In fact, I don't want you to tell me, right now… because I've decided that I was the one who screwed up, back then. I didn't trust you, and so… I am now. I… I need to explain myself."

I swallow hard, nodding. "…Okay."

"I… Gil, I panicked. You had pictures all over the townhouse of… of Laura." I'm surprised she knows the name, and I'm also curious—I only had one picture of Laura, and it's only because it was of the night I found out about Joshua. It's the only picture of _him_ that I have the heart to see on a daily basis, because it isn't so overt.

"I mean, nobody keeps baby pictures of an ex-girlfriend… pictures ranging the span of her entire lifetime… unless they're still in love with her. And I… I snooped, Gil, a lot. I looked in the back of the picture, and I saw when it had been taken… I couldn't handle that you'd been in love with someone else for eleven years. How could I compete with something like that?"

She starts pacing, and I try to speak—to correct her misconception, but she silences me with a look. "I need to get this out while I can… I… I was sitting at your computer desk, loading the internet, while you were out that day… and I saw your bank statement, and the letter from the FBI. And from that much I could tell that they were taking money, without it showing up to your bank who they were… and that it was half of your monthly income.

"…Which made me think… you know, who gives money to the FBI? Somebody who's in trouble or somebody who _is_ FBI. You wouldn't have the lab cover-up if you were openly an FBI agent, which would mean that you lead a double life… the second half of your income supporting the second half of your identity..or something. God, that was scary… I still don't really understand what it means, Gil, but… but I'm trying very hard to have blind faith, right now."

She flexes her fingers in agitation, and sits down again. I open my mouth, again, but I'm silenced once more. "There's more, Gil… I… I did a lot wrong. I, uh… your email is the first page that opens, Gil, and… and your bank sent you messages about… about account activity."

My eyes narrow in frustration. Was there anything in my home she hadn't invaded? Any single piece of circumstantial evidence that she would have given me the benefit of the doubt over? …Or at least waited to discuss with me, before running away and leaving me with nothing?

"A lot of money was deposited… and then even more was spent, an hour later, when you claimed you'd gone to the lab… and then when I asked you about the FBI you… you brought up the scar I have. I.. Gil, you know how I am with… vulnerability...

"And then… you were hiring in Vegas but you didn't even think about how I was more than qualified… how we could have been together. It didn't even occur to you… and then, when you were arguing for me to wait for the day shift position you… you pulled the 'I'm-a-man-my-job-is-more-important-because-I'd-have-the-primary-income card.'"

I stare at her in awe, my mind racing over all the new information… all the things that were so easily explained, and yet she had thought the very worst of me… misconstrued everything, down to the purchase of the engagement ring, into something twisted and deceitful and wrong.

I run a shaking hand through my hair, not certain whether to argue, to explain, to lash out… I loved her, trusted her, even when she told me that there would be things I might never get to know, and yet she hadn't been able to trust me even when I'd told her, at the time she confronted me, that I would tell her everything…

If she could change so many innocent situations into a labyrinth of lies, would this be the way the rest of our lives would be? Any time I worked a double, any time I wanted to surprise her with a present, any time I needed a few days to work through a difficult case before talking about it… would she believe it was something else entirely? Would she run away, again and again, leaving me with nothing every time?

But when I don't speak, her face crumples, softly, tears spill over their brims, and I sigh, pulling her against my chest. "I just… Sara, I need some time to process all of that, okay? I love you honey, and… and I'm not saying that I can't get over it, but… it's hard, knowing how little faith you had in me… how I was never given the benefit of the doubt. Sara, I… I wanted you in Vegas. I still want you there… and my comment about the primary income wasn't about being a man, it was because I knew that I would make more than you… I know what they're paying the new CSIs, Sara, that's all. As for the rest of it—"

"Don't." She stopped me. "When the day-shift position opens… when I… move to Vegas, you can explain everything. Until then, I want to make sure you know that I'm doing this on blind faith alone. …You deserve that much, after how I didn't trust you… You can tell me in Vegas."

I nod, slowly, aware how truly difficult a step that is for her to take, and hug her tightly again. "I love you, Sara."

She kisses me. "I love you too, Gil. I'm sorry."

I shake my head softly. "You don't need to keep saying it, honey, I know. Let's, uh… let's just get some breakfast, enjoy our morning together… put all of that behind us, for now. I need some time to process it all, but I don't think there's anything I couldn't forgive you… maybe that's not very smart of me, but… it's true." I sigh, but smile at her just the same. "Come on, come jump in the shower with me… I'll wash your hair for you."


	46. Admission

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: I'll just say sorry in advance, for this one. :) Please review anyway, even if you hate me now. Hehe.

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Chapter 18: Admission

I gnawed on my bottom lip all through the drive to the airport—I had intended, when we had this discussion… when I came clean with everything… to tell him about Greg. To explain that it had been a crazy reaction to my even crazier hang ups, and that I had regretted it from the moment I realized that I'd been wrong about why I ran. I had just wanted so badly to let myself be with him… spend the holidays together… hope for a future, but I was afraid of the secrets… afraid of playing the fool… afraid of being my mother. I probably wouldn't have told him the last part though…

When I had believed I had something to fear from him—when I hadn't yet seen the love in his eyes and taken an insurmountable leap of faith—I was scared of how much I wanted to be with him, despite how much I did fear him… what he could do to me. Sleeping with Greg was an act of rebellion against a heart that loved too deeply for its own good…

But in doing so, I had realized how inescapable my feelings for him were… I had agreed to one of the holidays… Maybe there was a silver lining… it wasn't as though I'd cheated on him…

I cringe. Tyler hadn't cheated on me either. It had been enough for me to leave him…

And I truly had meant to tell Gil—I just… hadn't expected his response to my lack of trust would be so strong. How—after clearly being hurt so badly and trying so hard to forgive me—could I expect him to take on another weight? Another indiscretion from the woman he loved so deeply, though God knows why he did…

Had he done this to me—mistrusted me, snooped, made assumptions, left without explanation after demanding all my secrets be laid out on the table, at his command… and then, if by some miracle, I could fathom forgiving that… trusting again… and he told me he'd slept with someone else while we were apart… that, in fact, he had slept with someone else _because_ I had offered the opportunity for a second chance…

I knew, without question, that I would _never_ forgive him. I would walk away and never, ever look back… no matter how much it hurt me.

So how could I expect him to take on another burden… when he was still trying to forgive me for the first one I had thrown over his shoulders?

…It was so much easier just to say nothing… to be grateful that he loved me enough to try to forgive… to insist on taking a lightening quick shower, and on eating only cereal—though I seriously could have gone for some of his banana pancakes—so that we could make love one more time before he left. It was easier to smile, and kiss him, and avert my eyes when he stared too deeply… to help him load his luggage, to drive with false concentration, and to talk only of missing him… while we waited.

But each minute closer to his departure time brought with it an added weight. He was leaving me… and what were my chances of convincing him to forgive me when he was miles away… surrounded by Vegas showgirls, this _Catherine_ I had heard so damn much about, and pictures of _Laura_…? And if I didn't tell him now… if I waited months, a year even…? He would then need to forgive me for not telling him for so long, wouldn't he?

It certainly didn't make sense to add to my list of wrongdoings…

I jump when he stands up, and he chuckles at my reaction—my look of surprise. "They just called my rows, honey… Haven't you been listening?" At my obviously blank stare, he chuckles again. "Where were you?"

I shake my head. "No where… just..." I blush, "Just thinking about you… and Vegas. …You really think they'd hire me? I don't even have a full year's experience…"

Ah, my old tactics again—don't lie, but certainly don't tell the truth. The difference was, I felt guilty doing that with Gil.

"I'm certain they will." He kisses me. "I'm sorry honey, I really do have to go… but, you're coming to Vegas over Valentine's, right?"

I nod, with tears in my eyes, and kiss him fiercely—just in case it's the last time I ever get to. He kisses me back with barely restrained passion, and there's a gleam in his eye when he pulls away. I grin.

"Sara…" he warns, and I giggle, which softens his expression—he catches my chin and gives me another kiss—this one a more gentle peck. "I love you, sweet."

The tears threaten to spill over, but I contain them. "I love you too, Gil."

"I'll call you when I land, okay?"

I nod. "Okay… I'll… I'll miss you!"

He smiles sweetly. "I'll miss you too… and we'll be seeing each other soon—it's only a month and a half now, less, really… okay?" He plants a kiss on my nose, and my lips once more, for good measure.

I nod, trying to put on a brave face. "…Okay."

He hugs me tightly. "Bye Sara."

"Bye…"

He smiles, squeezes my shoulders, and turns to board his airplane. I slump into the chair I'd previously been sitting in, cursing my cowardly nature and letting the tears finally fall. …How could he ever forgive me?

My head snaps up. It isn't over yet. …I'm not going to lose him because I waited too long—because I was afraid. He may not be able to forgive me, but… the _only_ way he will is if I'm upfront and honest… right away. I drag my cell phone out of my pocket and dial the number I had memorized by heart, though I have rarely had occasion to use it.

As it rings, I move myself into a secluded corner—this isn't a conversation that I need anyone else overhearing. My stomach is tying itself in knots, and the tears fall freely, but I don't hang up—I could lose too much, if I gave into my fear now. And then he answers.

"Hello?"

"Gil?"

"Hi, honey, what's up? …I don't know how long I can stay on…" Of course… the flight attendants will be telling people to get off their phones… I'll have to make it quick then.

"No, I know but… I needed to tell you something."

"…Okay?" He sounds worried, and I cringe, but press on—needing him to understand why this is happening right this minute.

"I, uh… I wanted to tell you this morning, I swear I did… I meant to, but…" I hesitate.

"But what, honey?" I tense… and I know my silence only worries him more. Somehow, though, I can't find the words. "You can tell me anything, Sara… what is it?"

I try again… "It's just that… that you looked so hurt and… and upset and… and betrayed and… and I think this is probably worse than all of that…"

"Sara…"

"…Promise you won't hate me, Gil? You can be mad at me… and yell at me… but promise that… no matter what I tell you… you won't hate me?" I beg, with a desperate need—I could not stand that… it would be worse than his anger, or his sadness, or his disappointment… it would be worse than losing him altogether.

His voice comes softly—hesitant and almost frightened. "I could never hate you, honey… not for anything. I promise."

I sniffle."I… Gil, I… we weren't together anymore… it was this past fall… It… it was when you asked to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together…and I said I'd think about it…"

He draws in a steadying breath. "…Okay?"

"I… well, you scared me, Gil… because I loved you but I was so afraid that I would let that… convince me to be with you… when I didn't think I could trust you…"

Great, good job, Sidle. Remind him of the other reasons he's mad at you. I cringe, but forge on, because he hasn't said anything…

"I… I went out drinking with… a friend, and… Gil, I… I slept with him."

At first there's dead silence on the other end, but sooner than I expect, he clears his throat. "You… you had sex… with him… after I asked about Christmas…?"

I draw in a shuddering breath. "…I'm so sorry, Gil. I… I was just… feeling so vulnerable and…" The tears come in a fresh rush, and yet his voice is still soft and quiet… hardly his at all.

"Who was it?"

My eyes grow wide. "…W-what?"

Greggo had just applied for the DNA position at Gil's lab… Before Jim and Marlene died, I had actually been meaning to mention him to Gil, to tell him how good he was… I swallow hard, uncertain.

"Who was the… friend?"

"Oh, just… uh… someone I work with."

"The creepy DNA guy?"

My heart hammers in my chest. I never lie to Gil. I hate even half-lying to Gil.

"No. …Someone else, a… another CSI."

I listen to him breathing in and out slowly, and I wonder at his calm… maybe he isn't as mad as I expected. I chew on my bottom lip.

"Gil…?"

His response is a grunt, but it sounds off… it quavers on its way out.

"I… I'm sorry. I… Gil, I… I love you."

_"I'm sorry sir, you're gonna to need to turn off your cell phone…"_

He clears his throat again. "Sara, I… I have to go. The… the flight—"

"I heard her…" I blink my tears back furiously, and try again. "I love you, Gil."

His voice comes blank and empty. "I love you too, Sara."

"…Will… will you call me, when you get home?"

"… Yeah. …I gotta go, Sara." He repeats, and the line disconnects.

I take a taxi home, half an hour later, when I've finally gotten control of myself enough to think of leaving the airport. I'm in no state to drive.

And when I get home, I wait between both my home and cell phones, the entire night… But he doesn't call me.

In truth, there's a part of me that isn't surprised, but… there's no part of me that doesn't hurt.

I managed to call in sick—I had just had a week off, but by telling my boss it had been my parents (previously I had only informed him of a 'death in the family'), I was able to get another day or so… and then I let myself fall to pieces.


	47. Survival

Disclaimer: They're not mine... :(

A/N: This one's short, but please review anyway! I've finished several more chapters, so I felt really excited to post more and move the story along...

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Chapter 19: Survival

I disconnect the call and turn off my phone numbly, unable to process what I had just been told… how I felt about the entire thing. But no longer linked to her—no longer focused on calmly responding… gathering information… processing her words… it feels like my world is getting much too small, much too fast.

I swallow convulsively, closing wide eyes, my mind suddenly full of images of my beautiful, pure, immaculate Sara in carnal positions of sin and lust, with someone who could not possibly love her body as I did… love her whole self, as I did. I feel bile rising in my throat, and I have to stumble from my chair and rush into the airplane's bathroom—to the poorly hidden irritation of the flight attendant—as dry heaves overtake me.

When I finally feel like I'm in a bit more control of myself, I stumble up and to the sink, bracing myself against the counter, running cold water and splashing my face, and rinsing out my mouth, even though I hadn't actually vomited. A knock comes at the door, and I manage out a stalling word or two, and then stumble back to my seat in agony, unable to meet the flight attendant's now-concerned eyes.

I tried to be logical—clinical, even. What exactly did I know? Had it been an affair? A one-night stand? A relationship…?

And if it had been a relationship, had it fallen during the time we were having our "conversations" over instant messenger? …How did I feel, knowing I could have been the other man…? That she had no qualms with such activities while committed?

But no, that wasn't fair. I didn't know that she'd done any such thing… maybe she'd just slept with someone. It had sounded like she'd only slept with him.

My hands tremble.

How is that the most appealing option, right now? _Hopefully the woman I'm in love with had only _just_ fucked some other guy…?_

And suddenly I didn't care if we'd been together or not… I didn't care if she'd loved him, used him, or had been too drunk to realize what she'd done until after the fact… because, in truth, it boiled down to the same thing.

I had loved her—thought of no one else but her… longed after her for months of solitude and grief, only hoping that she would eventually allow me to explain _her_ misunderstanding—the mistake _she_ had made. …_She_ had invaded _my_ privacy, betrayed _my_ trust and refused to trust me… she had jumped to conclusions, assumed the worst, and never even given me a chance to explain…

…and I had simply waited, wishing for her to come down from her crazy insecurities long enough for me to explain… as if she were the only person in the world who didn't like to feel vulnerable… as if she were the only person allowed to have baggage. How much about her was I willing to accept that I might never know… and yet secrets which hadn't even been secrets—which I'd _offered_ to explain—had driven her from me. _Driven her to another man._

I just hoped he had been worth it for her… because loving Sara Sidle hurt too much. After losing two children, many women I cared about, and coming too damn close to losing my sanity in the process, more times than I cared to admit to, even to myself, I was really just… _done_.

I didn't cry when I lost Sara.

I got off the plane, I took a taxi home, I fed my insects… I turned on a baseball game, and made myself dinner. I dumped the terrarium in the bottom of a closet I rarely used, I cracked open a cold beer, and when sleep wouldn't come… I talked to my picture of Amber, letting my mind wander over the things she would tell me if she could call me today—this dance, that boy, this friend, that piece of math homework—and this soothed me in a way it had never done before.

Maybe it was just because losing Amber was no longer the freshest pain in my breast… or maybe because along with all that pain came the realization that I truly _had_ endured worse, and come out on the other side, alive, if not unscathed. And I knew that I would work my way through it—one day at a time—letting pretending to function give way to functioning, until you almost felt normal again… you might even feel happy, every once and a while.

Sara had once said, in her cryptic way, that she was a survivor. …I was too.


	48. Pain

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sooo here's the next chapter. It looks like there are going to be 32 chapters in part 2, which means we have twelve to go until the iconic "I don't even have to turn around..."

In the mean time, I would like to ask some questions and opinions of you, my lovely readers, if you would be so kind.

First of all, does anyone know how much older Sara's brother is than her? I know he's old enough to have had marijuana under his bed when she was little enough to be playing hide and seek... but that leaves a wide range, and I was wondering if it's mentioned in another episode more specifically, or if that's all we know...

Secondly, as I'm getting closer to the actual episodes of CSI, I'm having a hard time deciding how to write part 3, where it will entertwine with actual episodes. I was initially thinking I'd go back to two perspectives per chapter, but then every time the two of them spoke, I'd be relaying the same event twice. It could be very interesting to have both perspectives on each of those moments, but at the same time, it could just get extremely repetative.

I also considered doing what I'm doing now--each chapter changes perspective, and have some events just portrayed from one side rather than the other. But I feel like a lot might be lost, in this way...

Please tell me what you think! I would appreciate it, especially if you have a reason to do one or not do one that I haven't thought of! Thanks!

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Chapter 20: Pain

It hurt so much more to lose someone when _they_ left _you_. …I had ended things with Tyler in righteous indignation, with Michael in a distressed and guilty attempt at self-preservation… with Gil in a hurried, fearful, overwhelming devotion to so-called principle.

But when Gil ended our relationship—when I had no control and no anger and no one but myself to blame… well, the pain of self-loathing certainly wasn't new to me, but it had been absent for a long time. It was sharper, fresher, more insistent—not the dull aching kind of pain, but the stinging, salt-in-the-wound, thin and high-pitched kind of pain.

It was a pain that was harder to work through, harder to forget in a book, harder to pretend away…

Gil must truly have changed me, because I did several things, in the aftermath of losing him, that I never would have done before.

First of all, I called him. He had promised that he would call me when he landed, and he didn't. I waited hours, I didn't sleep, knowing that he worked the graveyard shift and that he would probably still be up… And when an entire night and day had passed and I hadn't eaten or slept, carrying both phones with me to the bathroom when I absolutely could not wait any longer to go…. I decided that _I_ would call _him_.

I would make him understand how meaningless it was—how it had only been because I loved him so much… and how I had closed my eyes and pretended that it _was_ him, and had even made the mistake of screaming _his_ name… I would make sure he knew how sorry I was, and how completely I regretted my actions—how much and how deeply I loved him.

…I was even prepared to disclose some secrets, to prove that love. I would tell him about the drinking… about Jeremy… about my mother. I would tell him about Ken Fuller, and the foster dad who bit me, and Ryan… the _only_ thing I would keep to myself would be the day my father died. Everything else, he could know… as long as he would have me, and forgive me, and love me.

God, I was desperate for love. For _his_ love.

I called, and it rang several times, and sent me to his answering machine. The first ten times I didn't leave a message, and then I did… I left many. I even broke down and called his lab.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab, this is Judy, Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Dr. Gil Grissom?"

"Oh, yep, he's just stepped into his office. And who may I say is calling?"

I hesitate, briefly—but realize that lying will only result in more anger on his part. "…Sara. Sara Sidle."

"Okay, I'll transfer you."

I imagined in my head how much time such a thing would take—she might page him, tell him he had a call on this line or that one… if he was speaking to someone it might take a moment before he responded… I waited, tapping my foot. And then she would tell him who was calling for him—_Sara_. Sara Sidle.

…I drew in a deep breath. Unless the person in his office was long-winded, he should know I was calling by now… I had butterflies, but not the good kind—the swooping, twisting, agitating kind of butterflies… and just as I was thinking maybe she hadn't transferred me and I should hang up and try again—the dial tone came.

He'd hung up on me, without answering.

I sat in front of the computer whenever I was home, hoping he would sign online… that even if a telephone conversation was too difficult, he might resort back to this means of communication.

No luck.

Finally, one day, I picked up the phone and called his cell, for what felt like the millionth time, in sheer agony and desperation—not even expecting him to answer anymore. And so, it took me off-guard when he did.

"Grissom." His voice is heavy with agitation, and I sit up straight in alarm, having not even prepared what I wanted to say—I hadn't for the life of me thought he would pick up.

"…Gil."

When I can't find words beyond that, he sighs. "Sara, let me just make this easy, for both of us… I, uh… I forgive you, okay… we can still be friends… so please stop calling."

Although I've nearly run completely out of tears, somehow more surface, unbidden but not unexpected. They fall freely. "F-Friends…? Gil, no, I… I can't be your friend, I… I love you. I'm so sorry, I just… please, let me explain. I'll explain…everything."

He clears his throat. "You don't need to explain. I understand, and I forgive you, Sara. I'm not mad. But I… I keep seeing it, in my mind, Sara, over and over again…" He swallows hard. "…And if I want it to go away… I can't. …Just… please don't call anymore."

"Gil…"

"I, uh… I need to get to work, Sara."

"It's only seven o'clock. You have hours."

"I… I got… called in early. Don't… don't call again, please."

And though this kills me, his voice is so desperate… so unerringly mournful as it breaks over the word 'please' before the rough disconnection and resulting silence, I don't have the heart to keep trying.

Another thing that isn't like me—another thing I would never do: I gave up.

I also called for help—something I _had_ done before, but it was rare… reserved for only the greatest of heartaches. I called Kelly, and she flew in that night, little Joey in tow.

Seeing the little booger helped and hurt—I loved him, and he gave me something to focus on… feeding and changing and rocking and playing and burping and bathing… it was exhausting. Between caring for him and late-night talks with Kelly, I was finally able to sleep again.

"…Caring for an infant shouldn't _increase_ the amount of sleep you get, Sar'." She scolds me playfully. We're curled up in my bed in pajamas, a pack-and-play in the corner, with soft snores drifting from it. I make a face at her.

"Yeah, well, maybe sleep is overrated."

She rolls her eyes, but then they soften… focusing back on me with more attention. "…You never cried like this with Michael." I shake my head, looking away, a fresh wave of guilt for that rising in me to add to the pain. Tears prick the back of my eyes again, and I blink them back furiously. I've already spent hours upon hours crying over him.

"…Sara, honey… if he means that much to you… I mean, if he's… the _one_… maybe we just have to do something about this."

My eyes snap to her face. What could I do about it? He didn't want me anymore.

"Maybe you should call him again… try explaining. Or… write him an email, explaining… that way you can say everything you want to, the way you want to… without getting emotional or interrupted. I mean… if he's _it_, you know… the love of your life… you don't just walk away from that. You fight for it."

But I don't have any fight left in me, and I don't believe for a minute that he wants me to fight to keep him anyway. He probably doesn't ever want to see me again… my strength fails me, my resolve wavers, and the careful mask falters and breaks—again. And then I'm sobbing against her again, her arms wrapped around me, and I can't even describe to her how much I hate myself for losing him.

Everyone who had truly wanted me in my lifetime, I had pushed away, because I was afraid to trust... Jim and Marlene, who'd wanted me to visit on the weekends and who'd only gotten a few visits a year… Michael, Gil… I was just damn lucky that Kelly didn't push to know everything, or I was certain that I would have pushed her away too. And, in truth… I hadn't let her in any more than Jim and Marlene.

I lift my eyes to look at her—the only person I still have who wants me, in any capacity… and I feel a desperate sob rake through my body, leaving me weak. "Kelly… I love you, so much. I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything… please don't leave me too."

She looks startled, and surprised, and hugs me and reassures me all the same, trying to calm me down… but I can't shake the feeling that I either have to come clean or lose her too… and the idea of voicing everything I skated over—lied about—for years… the idea of voicing all the horrors I had buried in hopes of never finding again… it's overwhelming. An impossible proposition.

And so I simply sob harder, clutching at her like she's my only lifeline in a tossing sea.

I don't remember the sobbing ending, nor do I remember falling asleep. I remember hearing her get up with Joey, the next morning… and I remember lying in bed, wondering how much I was willing to lose for my cowardice—how many people would slip away because I would rather hide from my past than face it.

I didn't make my confession to Kelly… but I determined that I needed to make a change of some kind. I needed to deal with my demons, or they'd haunt me forever...


	49. Greg Sanders and an Imaginary Promotion

Disclaimer: I don't own them, etc.

A/N: So, I'm sure I've got the details of Grissom and Brass' positions wrong, but in the pilot, Gris says "I'm your supervisor on grave" yet when he takes Brass' job, he becomes the Night Shift Supervisor... and because I can't let little details like that go, even though I probably should be able to, this is my way to reconcile what feels like it must be a discrepency in my mind. :) Soo, if I'm wrong, just go with me here. Willing suspense of disbelief, and all that... because I just can't let the details go. It isn't in me.

Also, sorry this update was so long in coming. I got caught up in updating another story--which I have to write to update rather than just proof-read, like this one--and it monopolized my time. Please keep reviewing, I love your reviews!

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Chapter 21: Greg Sanders and an Imaginary Promotion.

We hired a new DNA tech—from the San Francisco lab. Sara had said she'd slept with a CSI, so I wasn't concerned that it was _him_… I just didn't like the idea that he had probably looked at her, swooned over her, lusted after her—_because how could he not?_—every day, while I had considered myself lucky to talk to her over instant messaging.

And a DNA tech had flirted with her…taken her picture…months and months ago. There was every possibility—and once I met him, every _probability_—that he was the same man.

I was rather short with him, hard on him, even, when he first started. I couldn't help it. He made me think about her, a thing which I avoided doing at all costs—I lost focus, when I did. I needed stay focused on the cases… the lab… the team. If I didn't, I had nothing. Nothing because everything and everyone I had loved in my lifetime, save for my mother and my work, had been lost.

The thing about him, though, was that he was hard not to like. I didn't have trouble being stern with him, or making him think I didn't like him… but I had a lot of trouble _actually_ disliking him. What was worse was my entire team loved him… they thought he was the greatest thing to hit the DNA lab since… well, DNA.

He just wasn't… what I expected.

To be fair, his work was fast, accurate, precise—and he often went above and beyond what was asked, so that by the time you came to check on the results, he had anticipated your next three requests and had them all ready to go. He truly was an asset to the lab, but…

I would watch him flirt with Catherine, and could imagine him doing the same with Sara, in months past, in the San Francisco lab. And, when he referenced the city, he usually called it 'Frisco.' Sara had called it that. …Somehow, this was _undeniable proof_ that the two of them were linked. It drove me crazy_._

And then there were his shenanigans—wearing evidence, especially if it was women's clothing, loud music in the lab… and it was contagious. A couple weeks after he started working there, I saw that Warrick and Nick had brought in a… well, I'm not exactly sure what it's called, but a… video-game-player-machine… into the break room, to play until I made it in for assignments… to play between assignments… to play while waiting for evidence.

_It drove me crazy_. Have I mentioned that? Absolutely, one hundred percent, put-me-in-a-damned-asylum crazy. But the lab was more important than the minor hysteria that the woman of my dreams left me with—he was the best we had ever had… so I couldn't fire him. …I just had to endure him.

What was worse was that I got sick in April, again—I should have figured that skipping it once wasn't going to make it go away entirely… especially with everything that had happened. But I always tried to stick it out and miss as few days of work as possible, and that was even more important after my break-up with Sara and her subsequent barrage of telephone calls. I needed my work like I needed oxygen.

…It's extremely hard to hate someone who keeps being nice to you. Until the niceness becomes downright irritating. And it did.

Greg, having only worked there a few weeks, obviously had not caught on to how fervently—if unfairly—I wanted to hate him. He was only being friendly—if I sneezed, he'd say 'Velsigne Deg!' as if that was the most rational response to a person sneezing. When I raised my eyebrows in abject dislike, he had shrugged and smiled. "That's 'bless you' in Norwegian. My Papa Olaf—"

I had made certain I was out of the DNA lab before he could continue _that_ story. But then when I'd check for DNA results, he would ask how I was feeling, or tell me that his Nana Olaf had always given him lefse with butter and sugar when he was sick and that maybe I should try some.

I cringe—I hadn't had lefse in years… not since Minnesota. I was fine reminiscing on my own terms, but I hated having nostalgia thrown at me, unexpectedly.

Still, I couldn't hate him.

And then there was Jim, who was given a pretend promotion—he'd been waiting on the Deputy Chief position for months, and, mostly to appease him in the meantime, I imagine, he'd be promoted to Night Shift _Director_, and I was called the Night Shift Supervisor.

…Not that much changed, other than what he put beneath his name on inter-lab memos. He still handed out assignments and did the paperwork… he kept the big office and the responsibilities for the shift… and I kept my smaller office, and basically acted as a senior CSI and mentor to the team. As usual. Every once and a while I would get an unexpected pile of paperwork to do, but really, not much changed.

Well, not in the strictest sense. The job didn't change… Jim did, a little. I think he was under a lot of pressure… he wouldn't tell me what, but he became more hands-off. When he accompanied me to a scene, it was to speak to the press or to keep up appearances… mostly he would talk to people, and then stand off to one side while I processed.

It was slightly frustrating, but he'd never loved fieldwork as it was. Usually he'd stayed in the office, if he could help it. So now instead of going to a scene I would have done alone… alone, I had a shadow that talked a lot. He was more cynical, too. This normally would have amused me more than irritated me, but his cynicism reminded me vaguely of Sara, and so I found it a struggle to work peacefully with him.

And on top of everything, the reason why I was sick weighed heavily on my mind. Amber would be sixteen this month. Sweet sixteen. …It pained me deeply that I didn't know if she had never been kissed… didn't know if she dated, or went to school dances, or had friends. Would I like her friends, or think they were a bad influence?

Would I need to go tell her to change when she came downstairs before a date? Would I be a cool dad who was nice to the boyfriends, or would I make a point of cleaning my service weapon while the poor boy sat and waited for her in the living room…? I got a very deep satisfaction out of that mental picture. Apparently, even though I hated carrying the thing, I was _that_ kind of dad.

Except I wasn't. I wasn't anything.

All in all, I don't think I like 1999 very much. I'm looking forward to a new millennium, although I can't for the life of me fathom why. I foresee very little to look forward to...


	50. Melanie Rice

Disclaimer: Alas! I shall never own them...

A/N: Sorry, I meant to post this this afternoon, but I had internet complications. :) Please review, it makes me excited to progress the story, which is helpful... I only just finished chapter 24 last night, and I'm trying to keep ahead of my posts, but then you're all so nice, and I'm excited to hear what you'll think about the next part, so I proof-read instead of writing and... it's a twisted cycle. hehe.

Also, I didn't warn last time, and someone reviewed that it was too much, so fair warning this time, this chapter references rape and is somewhat graphic. Just so everyone knows... :)

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Chapter 22: Melanie Rice

She was eighteen years old, raped on a beach from behind, and she believed he was a guy she knew, whose advances she had rejected. I tried to keep perspective, when I was assigned to the case, but I couldn't. I couldn't and I didn't. I would have preferred to process the scene—which probably held nothing anyway, but needed to be looked at—but I was assigned to the case with a man, and so I had to process the girl. I was never one to turn away from something, even if a part of me knew that I probably should…

So I braced myself, before entering the hospital room. Carrie, the CSI from Miami, had given me strength during my experience… I would do that for Melanie. I would be strong, and compassionate, and I would give her justice, like I had never gotten. DNA had come a long way since 1993.

I push the door open slowly, and feel like I'm walking back in time. Her hair is messy, her eyes wide and scared, her face black and blue. I draw in a deep breath, steeling myself.

"Hi, I'm Sara Sidle… I'm with the crime lab. I'm… I'm here to collect evidence, so we can catch this guy…"

She nods, but the fear is there in her eyes. I move slowly, resting my kit on a chair next to her bed, walking her through everything I do before I do it, my eyes soft. She has bruising, on her wrists—very similar to the markings I had had and deep bite marks on her shoulders. I flinch when I see them, but I make sure I take extra photos—maybe we could match it to someone's dental records.

And then, when I've finished processing her, I sit down where my kit had rested, and I begin the hardest part—making her relive the event.

"Can you tell me what happened? …Anything you remember. Sometimes the smallest of details help…"

She draws in a deep breath. "We were at my friend Chelsey's parents' beach house, for the weekend… But her boyfriend's friend, John something or other… he always flirts with me, but he was really coming on strong this weekend, and so I… I had to be pretty firm, to get him to back off. And then… there were a lot of people, and they were drinking—I don't drink—and it was hot and… crowded. I went for a walk on the beach, to get away from the noise…

"I… I heard someone coming up behind me, after I'd sat down, but I couldn't turn around fast enough, to see him… and he pushed me down in the sand. He tried to cover my mouth, because I screamed, and I bit his hand… so he punched me and pushed my face into the sand. He pulled my pants down, but left my underwear on… he, uh… he just worked around them. It… it felt like he wore a condom, but I… I guess I'm not sure."

She looks up, blinking rapidly, and I can't believe she isn't sobbing. I want to sob. I want to grab her in my arms and promise her that it's going to be okay—that we're going to nail the bastard who did this to her—but instead I simply take another deep breath.

"He… finished, and then got up… zipped up his pants, and… _laughed_. When he walked away, he kicked up sand on me."

She meets my eyes, and I continue to draw deep breaths, to keep from hyperventilating. "Do you… remember any identifying characteristics?" She shakes her head.

"His hands were all I could see… they were white, that's all I know… but it… it sounded like John. I swear I'm not just imagining that."

I nod, tears brimming my eyes. I wonder how it is that I'm closer to tears than she is. "I know… we're going to talk to him, okay? If… if he was the one who did this to you, Melanie, we're going to get him."

She nods, a small smile gracing her lips. Something in the fervency of my voice must have given me away, because her next words are far too accurate. "…Has… Someone has… you've… you know… what this is like."

I blink heavily, forcing myself to keep control. "Yes."

She nods, slowly, and keeps her eyes on me. "Then I'm glad you're the one helping me. …You know."

I nod. I did know. And now I had a desire to give this woman justice for more than my own sake, or the nameless, faceless victim's sake, or even for justice itself's sake… I wanted to get him for _Melanie_'s sake.

I had never been more thorough in processing evidence. I found a black hair in her underwear—she was a blonde. I make a mold of the bite marks. I measured the hand size of her bruises. I got a warrant for his DNA, his hand prints, his dental impressions, and the clothes he'd worn that night. There were long blond hairs caught in the weave of his sweater. Trace evidence of lubricant from a condom on his underwear, along with blood. Blood matching Melanie Rice.

My supervisor was impressed with me, but I hardly noticed. As soon as I was certain we had him locked up, and the evidence was processed perfectly to protocol, I went and found Melanie, in person. I told her we had him, and I held her through her subsequent tears, crying with her, for the loss of power such an act causes. I cried for the fear that would stick with her like a second skin and the fear of intimacy that was sure to sneak up on her when she least expected it. I cried for the weakness she would feel, and the pain she'd already endured. And she understood.

When I left her home that day, I felt different. Lighter, somehow. I could think about my night on the beach—about Ken—without mentally cringing. I wasn't afraid of my memories anymore, and I wasn't hurt by him… Somehow, in giving Melanie justice, I had found a little for myself as well. Justice and peace of mind.

And so I decided to spend the summer empowering myself further. I had let this go on too long.

I signed up for weaponless defense classes—I'd done some basic training before becoming a CSI, but it was minimal—mostly they had been concerned with firearms and an understanding of which levels of force were appropriate for which situations.

I even went to see a counselor—I was tired of hiding myself. I was tired of losing everyone I'd ever loved because I had never fixed myself when I was broken as a child. I wanted to turn some things around.

Mostly I talked about the rape—and she thought it was good that I was taking classes, and working through it by helping others. So I invited Melanie to the classes with me—maybe she wasn't ready for it, but I had to ask—and though she said no, she came about half-way through the third one, and we went through it together.

I didn't see her again, after the classes ended, but that was okay… we had needed each other, and leaned on each other, and we walked away from each other stronger and more whole than when we had met. That was a good thing.

I didn't struggle with rape cases anymore, I didn't feel afraid in dark parking lots, and I lost a certain sense of shame that had followed me, despite my knowing better—knowing it wasn't really my fault. Because I had felt like if I hadn't been drinking… if I hadn't wandered from the group… if I hadn't shot my mouth off… if I had only been stronger… Those thoughts, those doubts… they didn't swim around in my head every time I thought about Miami and Ken Fuller.

I felt like I finally had a sense of control and power back.

And I started volunteering at the local rape crisis center, on my days off—it wasn't like I had Gil to talk to, to fill up my time anymore—listening to girls who needed to talk and sharing my own experience when the occasion called for it. I felt like I was really doing a lot of good…

Feeling strong and empowered and so much more complete a person than I could remember feeling in years and years… I decided that facing my demons had been nothing but positive, so far. So I made the decision to visit my mother.


	51. Cheater

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Please review, the chapter after this one is one of my favorites. If I feel like most of you have read by tonight, I'll post it. Our main characters will meet again in chapter 26, so... :) hehe.

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Chapter 23: Cheater

Nearing the end of the year, Catherine started asking me to take Lindsey again… it had been a long time since she'd stayed with me, but of course I was happy to see her, and happy to spend the time. Apparently she and Eddie were fighting again, something about some young singer he was working with a little _too_ personally.

Frankly, I was surprised I hadn't heard something like this sooner, but I held my tongue, and enjoyed spending time with Miss Lindsey Willows, who still liked Disney movies, but more often now preferred board games. She was actually very good at Trouble… she usually beat me.

This continued for over a month, and then in mid-January, I realized I should have been worried about her discovery for far more selfish reasons than I was. I came to this realization when Catherine stormed into my townhouse on my day off—luckily I had forced myself to be motivated and had showered and thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt around mid-day, or she would have been walking in on me in my underwear with greasy, unwashed hair.

Even so, it was an unwelcome intrusion… I always forgot to keep that door locked…

Apparently, she and Eddie had just had another fight about his indiscrepancies—and he had accused her of having an affair with me. When she adamantly denied it, he brought up the incident in the diner, and my threat to pick up the pieces of his life if he wasn't willing to ditch the girl on the side and do it himself. At first I thought she was mad about that—I tried to explain that I hadn't meant I would take his place… I had meant that I would come comfort her and Lindsey, and help them through it.

But no, it wasn't that. She had not considered for a moment that I would do that. I'm not certain if that's a good thing—I didn't want her to think me opportunistic, but it would be nice to be thought of as a man, at least as an afterthought. I didn't want her to want me, just to… humanize me. But that was a lot to ask of a woman whose family was falling apart. I certainly understood that.

No, it was because I hadn't told her—because I'd known for 'two-and-a-half-fucking-years,' as she put it, and I hadn't said anything to her. I'd let her believe that things were okay.

I tried to tell her that I didn't know he'd continued—that there was every possibility that he hadn't, after I'd yelled at him—quite admirably, I had thought. But that wasn't really the point, and we both knew it. She had yelled herself out, and did not even grace my half-assed explanation with a response. Instead, she left, and Lindsey didn't come over anymore.

I heard through talk in the break room that she had left Lindsey with both Nick and Warrick, on separate occasions, though from the sound of it, they didn't know the real reason why. I felt a strange jolt of pride, at this realization—I may have screwed up, but she still trusted me more than them… she was my friend. Really, she and Jim were my only friends… and even if they were the strained sort of half-friendships that eventually inspire a level of care, even without the disclosure, I was happy to have them.

In truth, they were bright spots in an otherwise bleak existence.

And after a few weeks, she talked to me again. Well, she said more than the obligatory case details and scene assessment… We were still strained, but then, we'd always been that way, a little. She had wanted to go to marriage counseling—either it hadn't worked or Eddie hadn't agreed, she didn't tell me either way—and now they were getting a divorce. Awkwardly, I placed an arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze, and she seemed to appreciate the effort, at least.

It never necessarily felt awkward, touching Catherine—it just didn't feel like touching a woman. But not like touching a man, either. I would never put my hands on Nick's waist to help him down a steep slope, or out of a truck bed… but there just wasn't the awareness there that usually came with touching any woman, even one you weren't necessarily interested in. It wasn't that she was asexual in my mind—I'm certain, had I met her as a younger man, she would have featured in her share of fantasies—after all, she was smart, sexy, confident… but for some reason, it didn't register.

I wondered, vaguely, if that was Sara's doing, but I was pretty sure Catherine and I had had a comfortable level of non-awareness even before I'd met her.

But then, now was not really the time to wonder why I'd never even _wanted_ to think about this gorgeous woman naked, and I push the thoughts from my mind, and pull her instead into a full hug, which seems to serve better. She holds me tightly, and I wonder if she has anyone away from work to help her get through this.

I almost offer to come over after shift, spend some time with her and Lindsey, just to be there… but I don't. For some reason I find myself shying away from too much camaraderie outside of the lab—I love my team, but the idea of sharing parts of my non-professional life with them, even the least personal aspects…

Just the thought of it gives me an anxious feeling in my gut that does not dwindle with time—instead it increases, until I feel almost nauseous with it, desperate to retreat to my townhome and my solitude and my safety. And so I give Catherine an extra tight squeeze, and tell her I'm still happy to take Lindsey any time… and I make an excuse to leave her to her misery.

…Maybe I really don't deserve her friendship, after all.


	52. Mother

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So I'm having a myriad of computer-internet issues, and there's no way to guarantee that I can update tomorrow. However, this is another one of those chapters I spent what felt like forever trying to perfect, so I would appreciate reviews, when my lovely readers get a chance. It's taken a ridiculous amount of effort just to get this one up, so I have a feeling I'm going to need the motivation until the computer is fixed. But! I can check reviews on my phone, so please still do...

Thanks! Enjoy!

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Chapter 24: Mother

She had been in a mental facility in San Francisco the last time I'd seen her—almost every foster home I'd lived in until I was ten made me visit, once and a while. The good ones took me during Christmas, the bad ones just before a social services rep. came over, so that they could have something to talk about on a personal level—otherwise they didn't know me from any of the other children who lived there.

Perhaps because I'd so often seen her during Christmas, and it was after spending another holiday alone—Kelly and Eric invited me to spend it with them, but I knew I'd feel intrusive, so I'd turned them down—that I remembered my vow from the previous summer to visit my mother.

I couldn't work up the nerve to do it until close to the end of February—but I did. I drove myself along the path I'd remembered taking from the last foster home that had made me see her (the only time I can remember the actual route we drove), and found a building that was all too familiar to me. I wrote down the name, and left—needing to do a bit of supplemental research.

It was apparently a facility specifically for those who had committed crimes while deemed legally insane—the most severe cases, and those whose crimes had caused debilitating mental consequences. I remember social workers and foster parents, thinking I was too little to understand, talking about my mother in front of me while I waited to go see her… the words "psychotic break" and "post-traumatic stress disorder" hadn't meant much to me at the time, but they did now. Another word that had come up more and more as I got older was "relapse."

I filled in the blanks—she had killed my father when he… when it became too much… and upon realizing what she'd done, her mind couldn't handle it… she separated herself from reality, because reality was too much to endure. And every time she started to get better… something had happened to send her back to the beginning. I suppose it didn't help that my mother had never been particularly stable in the first place, but chances are it had very little to do with it.

I didn't know for certain whether they would just allow me in to see her, but… as a child, I had been allowed. So I took a chance—I went to the front entrance, through several metal detectors, and found a front desk.

"Hello. May I help you?"

"I, uh… I'm Sara Sidle. I was… wondering… My… mother, Laura Sidle, was here, uh… when I was younger. I… I haven't been here in years, but… I wanted to see her. If she's still here."

There. That wasn't so hard. But the woman is looking at me with a strange expression. "There's no Laura Sidle here, ma'am… I'm very sorry."

I draw in a deep breath. "The… the last time I was here was… 1981, I think. She was here, then."

The lady looked baffled. "I… we don't have computer records dating that far back, but, uh… I guess I could talk to someone about looking in the storage room."

I bite my lip. "Yeah… if you could. That'd be great."

She smiles at me sort of awkwardly, which makes me feel angry and ashamed all at once, though I can't necessarily explain that to myself, and I take a seat, waiting.

She returns with an older woman whose face stirs something like déjà vu in me. In the next moment, I understand why.

"Miss Sidle?" I nod, standing, and she moves over to me. She smiles sort of sadly. "I remember you—you still look like the scared little girl who would come in on the arm of a different foster parent almost every time… I'm very sorry that we can't be of more help, but due to doctor-patient confidentiality, we can't reveal anything that would be in your mother's files or documentation."

She's genuinely sorry, I can see that, but her answer just isn't good enough. I shake my head. "No, I… can you at least… tell me why she left. When she left. Give me… something to go on."

The woman bites her bottom lip. "Well, it's uh… a matter of public record that she went to trial in 1984. She was charged with first degree murder. She pleaded guilty. Refused an attorney."

I'm shaking my head, my shaking hands balling into fists to keep control on my disbelief and that ever-troubling temper of mine. "No. She… she was acting in… self-defense. She… Was she in her right mind?" I question indignantly, remembering how she had hardly been aware of my presence during some of my visits.

The woman glances side to side, feeling uncomfortable with my questions, and how much she can tell me. "The state chose not to try her until she had been released from this facility, and determined to be high-functioning and aware…"

"Why… why would she do that? I… don't understand."

She shakes her head, sadly. "I don't know, honey. She… she felt awful guilty, about what happened… with your father." My eyes lift to hers in alarm. _She knows._ Of course she knows. _Oh god_. I tremble. Her voice is coming soft, and I can tell she feels like she isn't supposed to tell me this. "From what I knew of your mother, honey, she probably felt like she deserved it…"

I can't handle it. I run, without even thanking the woman, with tears burning my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I didn't want them to fall. I didn't want to cry over my broken family anymore. I didn't want to take my mother's side, even if it hadn't been her fault. I had wanted to see her… not feel sorry for her. I didn't want to think about the demons she'd faced in the twenty one years since she had finally had enough and taken a butcher knife to my father.

I was concerned with my own demons.

I don't know how I made it back to my apartment, or how I didn't call Gil that night, begging him to jump on a plane as he had the last time, to come save me.

He had asked me to stop calling.

He had said we could be friends… and though he hadn't called me and I hadn't spoken to him in over a year now, I had to keep believing that it would be possible, if only I committed to the one request he made of me, after all my indiscretions. _Please don't call anymore._

So I took a burning shower, I put on my Harvard pants and the UCLA sweatshirt that no longer smelled like him, and I curled up in bed and cried. When I couldn't cry anymore, I pulled out a tattered old notebook—the notebook I'd brought to the conference… the notebook I had taken notes of his lectures in.

Interspersed between paragraphs of my messy short hand account of what he'd been teaching were hastily scrawled quotes. Sometimes they were someone else's words, that he'd borrowed with as much ease in his lecture as he did in real life, and sometimes they were his own statements, like "We are the victim's last voice" and "The room was talking to us."

I cried more, reading them, as I had nearly a thousand times since he'd left me, until I fell into a fitful sleep. The nightmare I had that night was strange—not a reenactment of my worst memories, like usual, but rather what I imagine most people's bad dreams are like—it included aspects of real life and real pain, but it was different… strange… unreal…and infinitely worse than the reality, though I hadn't previously thought that was possible.

_I was sitting under the kitchen table, in my parents' home. I had crawled here after my mother had come into the room, and stayed there while they fought… and screamed… while my dad hit my mom. I hear the tell-tale sound of the cutlery drawer, and hear my mother pull out a large knife. But I was an adult. _

_I was an adult, curled up in a tattered nightgown, tucked under a small table, and listening to my parents fight. A morbid curiosity grips me, and I peer out, wanting to see what's going to happen. Even though I_ know_—know the sound of my mother's angry screams and my father's pain-filled cries… know that after those come, he'll fall to the floor, but she won't stop…_

_But that isn't what happens. My mother waves the knife wildly and my father turns toward me, and though I can't grasp how this is possible, his face is simultaneously several faces. His face is Tyler's, and Michael's, and Ken's, and Gil's. I don't know why I have the cognition to realize that Greg's face is missing—otherwise these are all the men I've slept with—but maybe that makes sense too. I can't really be certain. _

_And then my mother stabs him in the back, and he screams and falls, and I'm screaming in agony too, because he screams with Michael's voice, and Michael doesn't deserve this… doesn't deserve to even be in this room, for anything. Fresh yet familiar guilt washes over me, and I rush out from under the table._

_Yet once I stand, my mother is gone. My father is face down, so I don't know whose face he has, but then Gil comes into the kitchen from the back door. He has plastic sheaths over his shoes and he's wearing a forensics vest, his kit in hand. He looks at me, intently, and I suddenly realize I'm in a ratty pink nightgown, the style more fitting for a child than my adult self. My legs and feet are bare. _

_"Well, we better start processing. The room is talking to us."_

_I stare at him in disbelief, as he sets down his kit and pulls out red fingerprinting dust. _

_"I only use this for the really elusive cases…" he tells me. And then he begins to spread the dust over me, instead of the surfaces in the room. Before I can protest, the red dust reveals fingerprints up and down my arms and legs, and bruises which had previously been absent are rising to the surface of my skin. _

_And then the room is actually _talking_—a booming god-like voice coming from the walls, but which also sounds strangely like my brother's voice. And it tells me that you can't hide from your past, because there's always evidence… the truth will always rise to the surface, like the bruises and the tears and the blood spattered across almost every surface in the kitchen._

_The back door opens again, and a faceless social worker comes in, taking my hand and pulling me towards the door. I tug away from her, looking frantically for Gil, but he doesn't notice my distress—he's looking at my father, who is now completely covered in maggots, and muttering something about 'Pupa, stage 3,' but even I know that my father hasn't been dead long enough for that. _

_When I turn around to see where I'm being led, I see the distantly familiar walls of the mental facility my mother had been in, cold and white and bleak, smelling of lies, and the social worker's voice is intoning softly, "You won't need an attorney… you'll be safe here… don't worry your pretty little head…" _

_I struggle to free myself from her grip, but I can't, and then I'm gripping the sides of the doorway, screaming, begging them to let me go, shouting that I'm not crazy…_

I sit straight up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat and panting like I've been running. My throat hurts, so I know I've been screaming. And after a beat, I realize that my face is wetter than the rest of me, and my pants are being interrupted by sobs I can't control. I fall out of bed, in an effort to get up, not realizing that my legs are tangled in my sheets, and crawl instead to the bathroom with a desperate frenzy, turning on the hot water and crawling into the tub still fully clothed, letting the water shower around me.

It doesn't help me forget like it usually does, and I replay the scenes of the dream over and over until I'm rocking back and forth under water that is now icy, just trying to sooth the stabbing pain in my breast.

I didn't sleep longer than a half hour at a time for the next several weeks, and that, at least, seemed to keep the nightmare away. I just wasn't sure how long I could keep it up... I didn't know how long I could keep going.


	53. Desperate

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, etc.

A/N: Okay, so for now internet is working, but I wanted to update while it is. I'm putting up two chapters, because this one is short, and because I don't know when I'll be able to put up another one, but it would make my day if you'd still review both. :)

For people who asked about timeline, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear about it in past chapters. They'd last seen each other Christmas 1998. It's in the end of 1999 that Catherine and Gil fight, and in Feb. 2000 that Sara tries to go see her mother. So we're really only a few months away...

Also, some commented on the dream--that was one of my favorite parts, I worked really hard on it, and I feel like it's our first glimpse into what Sara doesn't openly let herself think about--the things she runs from, and exactly what they all mean to her, as a whole... how they all connect. I like her subconscious, it's scary. :)

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Chapter 25: Desperate

April 2000. Amber's seventeen. _Seventeen._ She has a year left of high school… she might already be thinking about which college she would attend. I wonder vaguely if the money I'd been saving would be enough—she was smart enough to go to any school she wanted to, really.

Pretty soon, the account would be taken out of my name, and that would be it. The end of my last vestiges of fatherhood. The end of everything.

…Maybe I'd open a savings account, to put my Amber-money in, just in case I saw her again someday. It could help pay for a wedding, or a house, or… something. Whatever she needed.

It seemed that about the time I realized that I was losing the only thing I had left, I starting getting migraines. God, I'd never had a headache like that in my life. I was sensitive to sound and light and it took hours to go away. I even called in sick, the first time it happened, because it had been so intense and unbearable.

Over time though, they became kind of routine. I would deal with them as long as I could, and then retreat to my office, close the blinds and turn off the lights, and wait for it to pass.

At first, light and sound deprivation helped a lot. Within a month or so, I broke down and went to a doctor to get medication for it, because they were quite literally keeping me from functioning. Now, if I took meds right when I felt one coming on, it was usually reduced to a dull and thoroughly tolerable ache. On rare occasions I was reduced to my dark and quiet retreats, but those were few and far between.

I had been asked to speak at the upcoming Forensic Academy Conference—it was in the first week of June, this year, and in Seattle. I doubt I would have gone if it had been in the immediate area, but I knew that Sara wasn't much of a traveler, and also didn't have much expendable income. I figured she probably wouldn't be there, so I agreed.

It would be a nice change, to get away… I was nearly desperate enough to start racing cockroaches. I was running out of random Google searches… as if such a thing were possible. I was even considering digging out the terrarium and getting the tarantula I'd always wanted, but in truth, it was too painful. I couldn't do it.

And in the meantime, I subscribed to just about every forensic magazine worth the paper it was printed on, and tried to pick up other hobbies. I had always loved baseball, but I needed more than that. I watched poker on TV, but couldn't bring myself to haunt casino basements and run-down bars to play anymore. Now that I lived in Vegas, it seemed even seedier than it had before I had an intimate knowledge of exactly what happened in those places when no one was around.

It was then that I decided I needed to date. Yes. I would date. …It was decided.

Good.

_Good._

I would date.

…Maybe I'd have to learn a new language and read the complete works of Shakespeare in it… that ought to take up some of my time. German… French maybe… Portuguese…? That was bound to be unusual... maybe even Greek.

…Maybe I'd just never get the women who haunted me out of my mind, no matter how busy I kept myself.

Maybe this was what life was going to be like, from now on…

Sara had come into my life and somehow tricked my heart into hoping, once again, for all the things that I had given up on. That had been my mistake. I had gotten my hopes up, put too much of myself into those hopes… and when they were dashed, I found myself even lower than I had been before she came along.


	54. Seattle

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) Let me know what you think!

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Chapter 26: Seattle

I couldn't really afford to go to the conference—it had been so much easier when it was in town—but it was in Seattle, and I could hardly justify not taking the opportunity to see Kelly _and_ add a little to my knowledge base. Besides, a small part of me hoped that I would see Gil there. …I knew it was silly of me, and that he probably wouldn't talk to me anyway, if he _was_ there… but I couldn't help but hope.

I missed him so much.

I had just been promoted to a CSI level 3, and I would be working cases alone when I returned from the conference… that, at least, was something to be proud of. My supervisor had said he couldn't remember anyone in lab history moving to level 3 so quickly, and he'd been there twenty years.

…Granted, it was possible he was just trying to get into my pants; the man did have personal space issues… But I chose to believe that this compliment, at least, was purely based on my achievements.

Besides, the conference would give me some distraction from Frisco… Berkeley even, which I had loved. Because Berkeley had been the city I'd escaped to, the life I'd built for myself when I'd run away from what happened to me at Harvard. …I'd loved Boston until Ken Fuller came along, I had loved Berkeley until Gil Grissom came along… but now Boston seemed dark and seedy, in my mind's eye… and Frisco and Berkeley… seemed empty. Like this whole giant expanse of empty buildings and empty lives and empty promises.

Maybe, if Gil was really done with me, I needed to run again. It might not be the healthiest or most mature way of dealing with problems, but it had worked for me in the past, and there was really nothing tying me to this place. I worked in a lab that was good—better than most—but still not a top lab in the country… and by the people working around me, I could tell that I deserved to be in a top lab. I was just… better than most of them. ….and I knew that none of them would still be here if they could work somewhere better.

So, if I wasn't wanted in Vegas, maybe I'd look into working on the federal level, or looking into New York and Miami—their labs were ranked almost as high as Vegas. Miami held bad memories for me though—the city would always be associated with that night—and Greg had told me he didn't care much for New York. Not that that would make or break my decision, but it was something to consider…

Maybe at the convention I could talk to people from labs around the country, get an idea where I would want to apply…

I set out with that attitude in mind, rising early on May 31st to board a plane to Seattle. The flight had been expensive, but the fact that I was staying with Kelly and Eric helped cut down the costs a lot. And, by the time I had landed, I'd come to the conclusion that I needed this conference. I would spend some time with my best friend and godson, talk to people in my field about making a change, and I would find somewhere else to go.

Maybe I wasn't even running—maybe I was doing my best to move on. I couldn't hold onto a city I no longer liked, working in a lab I was overqualified for, living in an apartment I couldn't part with, despite the long commute, because Gil had stayed there and referred to it as "home" on more than one occasion.

I'd make a fresh start, devote myself to my career…

I was greeted just out of security by a screaming Kelly, as bouncy and wonderful as ever, and I felt tears prick my eyes upon seeing her. God, I had missed her. Eric comes forward after her, a little more reserved and a lot quieter, with an almost-two year old on his hip. Joey—with Kelly's blonde hair and blue eyes, but the rest of his face was Eric's. Eric gives me a cordial one-armed hug and a genuine smile, tells me it's good to see me again, and passes me Joey, who hugs me immediately, even though I haven't seen him since he was six months old.

Kelly laughs at my look of surprise. "He's a brave kid, hugs everyone… he'd run out and hug the mailman every day if we'd let him."

I grin, and give him an extra tight squeeze. "That's good though. It's good to be so trusting." And to have no reason to be afraid.

Kelly smiles and links her arm through my free one, leading me off to baggage claim and then their home, Eric following us quietly. I smile at him, when Kelly is over exuberant, and he grins back knowingly. Yes, we're definitely very alike.

The next morning I wake up before the alarm I had set to the smell of pancakes and bacon. I inhale deeply. Real food. I had lived on take out for so long I hardly remembered what it tasted like… my mouth was already watering, and instead of dressing, I just threw my hair back in a ponytail and wrapped a robe around me, rushing out to eat.

When I had finished eating and came back out to the kitchen, showered and dressed, Kelly grinned at me. "You look so cute all dressed up and professional!"

I roll my eyes. "Shouldn't you be working?"

She shakes her head. "I'm a teacher, Sara. It's June…"

I grumble. "Must be nice to get three months off every year."

She just laughs at me. "So, I was snooping last night, and I saw your flier. None of the lectures you had circled go past one o'clock. What d'you say I drop you off now, rather than you paying a taxi, and I'll pick you up for lunch afterwards?"

I nod. "Yeah, that sounds fine. You gonna be ready to leave in ten minutes?" She's still in cow slippers and pink pajama pants. She grins.

"If you change the baby, I'll be ready."

So I roll my eyes and move to the living room. "Joey, should we change you, hon?"

He immediately jumps up from watching tv, runs up to give me a hug, and then starts walking towards his bedroom and his changing table. Shaking my head, I follow him. If all kids were like this, everyone would want to be a parent.

When she drops me off, I sigh, unable to avoid thinking about the last conference I had attended. The fliers this year didn't list the speakers under the topics of the lectures, which seemed strange to me. Strange and almost cruel, truth be told, but that was life. So I walked into the building, found my first lecture hall, and sat down to enjoy.

It was a long day—I found so many of the speakers lacking, because they didn't have the passion that Gil did when he spoke. I very nearly considered skipping the last lecture and calling Kelly to see if she wanted to have an early lunch instead, but by the time she got Joey ready and drove all the way down here, the lecture would be half over anyway, and that was just silly.

I sat in the eighth row, next to some rather gossipy women—it was the only available seat that was relatively close to the front. The lecture hall was packed. I pulled out a notebook, preparing myself for another lecture which could not compare to Gil's, and tried not to listen to their conversation, because frankly, I didn't want to hear it. A few choice words caught my ears though, and then I was blatantly eavesdropping.

"—really dull speaker, but if you block out the voice and just look at the _man_…"

"—entomologist, which is like, totally gross, but…"

"—salt and pepper curls and these baby blues…"

"—get him to put his bugs away, imagine what he could do with those hands…"

"—think he likes it rough? Bookish guys usually do…"

My head snapped over to them, and I was given a look, forcing me to look away and ignore their giggles. I felt like I was in high school again… but that's hardly the most important thing right now. I look frantically down at the podium—he isn't here yet, but who else could they be talking about? It's _him_, I know it…

And then, call it speak of the devil or divine intervention or simple serendipity, the man of my dreams walked through the double doors at the bottom of the hall, running a little late but looking all the more attractive for his slightly flustered appearance, and over to the podium. I glance at my watch—he still has a minute or so to set up. He's not really even late, yet…

He doesn't even glance up, at first, focusing on getting set up for his presentation. I know he likes to have several minutes to mentally prepare, and I wonder how his lecture will differ from the others I heard because of this difference. I bite my bottom lip. Will he see me right away? Half-way through? Not at all? …Will he pretend he doesn't, even if he does…? And how am I supposed to act around him…?

Before I can begin to answer my own questions, his slides come up on the projection and I smile nostalgically—I kept telling him that people didn't really use slides anymore, but he didn't care. I didn't know if it was that he was set in his ways, or uncomfortable with technology, or whether it was truly a preference… but it made me feel good. I never wanted him to change. Everything about him was so perfect.

Except that he wasn't mine. That part could change. Really, I'd be okay with that…

He glances around the room, and doesn't see me with the first sweep—he's looking closer to the back, probably in surprise that there are so many people here. He's used to smaller audiences, but then, this isn't an entomology lecture… He begins to introduce himself, and his topic, and he makes another sweep—and stops mid-word as our eyes lock on one another, and the jolt that had shot through us on the first day clearly made a repeat appearance. Only this time, the electricity was mingled with a sad, sorry kind of pain.

He continues, trying to look as if he hadn't stuttered over his words, and the moment is lost. He doesn't look at my half of the hall again for the duration of the lecture, so when I feel like he's was winding down, I pack up my things—I was preparing for him running, and if he was like me, if he ran, he would be on the next flight out of Seattle. I just couldn't let that happen.

And I was right. He ends the lecture, grabs his stack of manila folders and box of slides, flicks off the projector, and heads for the door without a glance in my direction. But I was ready, and was half-way down to the podium by the time he reached the door. I speed up, pushing past people trying to gather their things, all but running. He exits the building as I exit the hall.

I speed up again, hitching my purse over my shoulder, and run out the doors. He has to stop, waiting to cross a street, and when I've halved the distance between us and he's turning with a look on his face—another rejection surely on his lips—I hear my name.

My eyes lock on Gil's, and then I turn to find the source. Kelly is standing half-way down the block, next to her vehicle, the back door open so she can talk to Joey while she stands on the sidewalk. I swallow. I'd forgotten she was picking me up. I'd forgotten everything when I'd seen him again…

But she could hardly keep Joey in her car indefinitely while I chased after an elusive entomologist… I look back and forth between the two, and Kelly and Gil turn curious gazes on each other instead. I see recognition in Gil's eyes, and then he turns back to me. I look down, and when I look up again, his face looks resigned, and he's moving back over to me. My heart races.

"Look, Sara—" he starts, but this sounds like the beginning of an easy let-down, I interrupt him instead.

"You should come meet Kelly!" And as if it had been yesterday that I'd last seen him, instead of over a year ago. He gives me a look—I'm ridiculously transparent—but he allows me to pull him down the block towards the puzzled woman next to her minivan.

"Kelly Reed, this is Gil Grissom." Her narrowed gaze fill with wide-eyed understanding at his name, and she plasters on a bright smile.

"Hello! It's so nice to finally meet you, Gil." He smiles, a little. He obviously knew I'd talked about him, and apparently this didn't upset him too much.

"It's nice to finally meet you too. Your reputation precedes you…"

She laughs openly. "I'm certain it does." An impatient cry from her vehicle interrupts her, and she turns back to Joey. "Oh, honey, just one more minute and we're leaving, Momma promises."

I watch Gil lean slightly, to look around the door and glance at the blonde child. He smiles softly, and looks back at me. "…I remember when she was only expecting…"

I nod, smiling too. Just over two years ago he'd been in my apartment, looking at old pictures of my bubbly friend. Our eyes meet, and I feel some of our old spark flicker between us, and then he turns away, as if he regrets the connection. Kelly intercedes.

"So, uh, Sara and I were just going to lunch… why don't you join us?"

I immediately tense, but Kelly's smile is hard to resist, and Gil is smiling back at her even as he tries to politely refuse. Suddenly Kelly is my hero, and I take back fervently every time I was mad at her for interfering on my behalf.

"I, uh… should probably get back…"

Another impatient cry comes from behind her. She grins. "Well, I'm not going to let you go until you agree and in the meantime you're making my baby cry… maybe you should just get in the van."

I can't help it, I laugh. He looks between us incredulously, but he can't fight the smile tugging his lips apart—he's heard all about Kelly, yet somehow the description always falls short of the real, live woman. He smiles begrudgingly, no longer able to hide it.

"I guess lunch wouldn't hurt…"

My whole world—my entire life outlook—has suddenly become very bright, because I was now guaranteed at least an hour with the man of my dreams. I almost felt light-headed with glee, hardly listening when Kelly directed me into the back to sit with Joey so that Gil could take the front. I simply follow directions, grinning like an idiot, which seems to make Gil smile more.

We drive out into traffic, and Kelly's brilliant conversation skills fill the vehicle, bringing the laugh I had missed like oxygen from lips that had filled my dreams. I would never criticize Kelly, ever again.


	55. Lunch

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

A/N: Hopefully the internet/computer issues have been resolved. Regular updates again! :) Please review!

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Chapter 27: Lunch

Seeing Sara in my lecture hall had taken the wind from me, and I struggled to speak after that, feeling as though I'd been kicked in the stomach. The force of it was too much to bear, and I admit it, I did everything I could to avoid the painful confrontation, because I'd finally gotten to the point that I only thought about her a few times a day. All of that would come crashing down if I saw her, spoke to her, spent time with her again. …If I kissed her, if we made love… I knew I would be completely lost, and completely destroyed.

But she chased me. Funny, I hadn't pictured Sara as the type of girl who'd chase a man, but then, I didn't know all that much about her—far less than I'd known about some of the women I'd only had first dates with. A part of me wanted her to catch me, to kiss me passionately and take away my choice in the matter—to demand that she needed me and that of course I needed her too… to end my self-imposed punishment.

But I had a head start, and I knew she wouldn't catch me, even when I had to stop and wait to cross a road for traffic. What stopped me was her name being shouted—and the fact that she stopped. I watched her glance down the street, and recognized an older version of the best friend I'd only seen in pictures. Kelly. _Of course,_ Kelly lived in Seattle—had I known that and told myself I didn't, in order to see her here, or had I simply and honestly forgotten?

At the distress in Sara's eyes, I sigh. I'll just have to go explain myself—tell her that I'm sorry, and that I'm truly not still mad, but that the thought of her with someone else when she should have been _mine_ was a disastrously devastating concept, and it would never stop plaguing me if I saw her and talked to her all the time. I move over to her, trying to be gentle, for her sake and for mine—if she cries, how will I not simply wrap her in my arms and try to save her again, even if I'm saving her from me?

"Look, Sara—" I begin, but she's quicker, dragging me to meet Kelly just to prolong our encounter—it's ridiculously transparent, but then, endearing all the same. I _like_ that she wants to keep me around—that's the problem.

And Kelly is everything Sara has described and more—the type of personality you would find exhausting, except that she's simultaneously so genuine and kind that it's hard not to smile and get energized yourself. I wondered if Sara knew this about Kelly, and anticipated how hard she would be to refuse—it didn't hurt that she had a beautiful baby in the car. I was a sucker for kids, and his blonde hair made me wonder whether Joshua would have been blonde like Laura and Amber or have my dark locks…

Under a barrage of emotion—both from Sara and the baby—and being swept up in Kelly's clever excitement and knowing eyes, I somehow found myself agreeing to lunch. And then I found myself in a minivan, with Sara smiling almost disbelievingly in the back seat. God, I had missed her smile.

And Kelly _was_ clever—she had obviously heard about me, her reaction to me had changed when she heard my name, and she kept me laughing and distracted, so that by the time we were walking into the restaurant, I was not thinking about how to keep my distance from Sara, or how to gently let her down… I was smiling, relaxed, my hand itching to fall on her lower back—where it felt like it belonged—and watching her carry the child whose name I now knew was Joey.

It was amazing to see Sara holding a baby. I knew, without doubt, that that image was going to follow me around now for a very long time. And Joey was the sweetest little boy—he had a cheesy smile, said 'pease' and 'tank ouu' every time he wanted something from Kelly, and she even passed him to me when she made the excuse of running to the restroom before our food arrived.

He hugged me immediately, leaned back and put a finger on my nose, and said "Nose!"

I laugh, "That's right, Joey. Nose. Where's your nose?" He giggles and puts his finger to his own nose, and I glance at Sara. "How old is he?"

She grins. "His birthday is in about a month—he'll be two."

I smile. "He's wonderful."

And her grin softens. "He is. I… I never thought I'd want a baby but… this little man, I tell you what…"

"Sawa!" He shouts, as if he's only just seen her, extending his arms to her, and I pass him over to her beaming face.

"Hi Joey, did you want to sit with auntie Sara?"

"Sawa!" They both giggle, and she pulls a Hershey bar out of her purse—it's already open—and breaks off a small piece and hands it to him.

"Here you go, sweetheart."

He points to his lips which have just closed around the chocolate. "Mmm! Nummies."

She giggles, and my heart absolutely melts at the sound—the sound, and the interaction. She's so sweet with him… we could have had that. "Yep, nummies. Now don't tell Mommy, okay? Shh!" She puts a finger to her lips at the sound, and he mimics her, his 'shh' much louder than hers.

I grin as Kelly slides back into her chair; the look in her eyes, especially when they focused on me, was all too knowing. The woman should run for president, or work as an ambassador… diplomacy and subtle manipulation were apparently her strong suits.

I sigh, figuring Kelly can't make _all_ the conversation. "So Sara tells me you're an art teacher… what age do you work with?"

"Middle school, mostly, although I visit a local elementary once a week—they can't afford a full time art teacher, so I come in and do something with a different grade every week, and leave art ideas with their teachers. Public schools are terrible about funding the arts."

I nod, in complete agreement. "I know, it's a really big problem. My mother's gallery does lots of fund raising for arts programs in schools. Whenever she sells a painting, she gives the proceeds to the fund. She likes to tell me that if every child was nurtured in the arts, my job wouldn't be necessary anymore."

Sara is watching me intently—she hasn't heard much about my mom, because we never talked about our families. She knew she'd run an art gallery, but I don't know whether I'd ever told her how talented my mother was. I knew I'd never told her my mother was deaf, and though I hadn't kept it from her intentionally—it truly hadn't come up, I purposely didn't mention it now… It felt too personal. I didn't want to open up to Sara again, despite Kelly's best efforts.

"Wow, your mother is a painter? I'm hopeless with paint. Well, I mean, not _hopeless_… I can do it, it just… it lacks the vision that so many really good painters have. I work a lot with charcoal, and clay…"

I nod. "I know. The, uh… the first time I bought Sara flowers, she pulled down a vase you'd made to put them in. It was beautiful."

Both women blush and smile at my statement, and then food arrives, and the conversation shifts. I chance a glance at Sara—she's smiling, but looks a little distant too. I want to take her hand and pull her against my chest and breathe in the scent of her hair, but instead I pick up a fork and begin to eat.

I paid the check, although I received a lot of argument from the ladies I dined with, and even an adamant "No-no!" from Joey, who had heard the repeated, "No, Gil.."'s from the women on either side of him. I cracked a grin and signed the slip, and we rose and piled back into the minivan. Sara's face was drawn now, and I knew why. We were separating again. I didn't want it any more than she did, but it felt necessary… vital, even.

Yet when Kelly parked beside my vehicle and turned to me, deliberately coaxing a smile from my lips with one of her own, and invited me to dinner later in the week… I couldn't refuse. I should have, but I didn't.

I shake her hand again, and tell her that Sara has my number so she can reach me about dinner, and I look into the back seat. Tears are brimming in her eyes.

"I'll see you later in the week, Sara." I say, more to reassure than as a parting comment. I hate to see her upset. She nods, and blinks to try to hide them.

"Yeah. It was… nice to see you, Gil." I offer her my hand, and she takes it and squeezes it, and then I get out. I knew I shouldn't have agreed, but between the pair of them, I was truly powerless.

…It didn't help that I wanted to see her again as badly as she wanted to see me, and nearly as badly as Kelly wanted to orchestrate it. I chuckle to myself, feeling simultaneously lighter and heavier and completely unable to explain such a phenomenon. It was definitely going to be an interesting two weeks.


	56. Dinner

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, etc.

A/N: Soo, this is a longer one. It still looks like part 2 will have 32 chapters, so we're four away. Please review! ...This is another of my favorite chapters. Lots of reading between the lines. :) Please review!

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Chapter 28: Dinner

Kelly and I spent that night curled up in the guest bed, Joey driving cars near the bottom of the mattress, with me thanking Kelly a thousand times over for being the nosy, intrusively intervening goddess of a woman that I'd always known she was. She grins, and wraps an arm around me, hugging me tightly.

"I don't get it. You and older men... you _do_ know how to pick 'em though; your geezers are never unattractive."

I roll my eyes. "If by 'not unattractive' you mean sexy as hell, then yes, you're right…"

She giggles, and I do too, and then we're laughing so hard that we're wiping tears from our eyes, unable to stop… and then I'm actually crying, and she's clucking her tongue in a motherly fashion and pulling me against her again.

"Oh Sara, he loves you too. I see it in his eyes… You two just need some time. …Don't push for a relationship, at first… settle for what he'll give you; there's no way he'll be satisfied with that, and you guys can progress from there… just let it happen naturally, Sara. Be his friend… he seems like a man who could use a real friend."

And so I nod, and angrily wipe my tears away, vowing to be content with whatever he will offer me, and simply hoping with all that I am that it will be more than the strained internet relationship I had forced upon him when I left. I realize that's unfair, and hypocritical, and yet I can't bring myself to care. I feel bad that it obviously hurt him, but it was better than isolation… I couldn't take not speaking to him at all again.

He had several night lectures, so he didn't get around to coming over for dinner until Tuesday of the following week. I saw him at the convention, and we exchanged awkward and sweet sort of smiles, but we were always on our way to a lecture, and had little time to talk. I wanted to suggest playing hooky again, but Kelly's words rang in my ear. I couldn't force it. I had to be content with whatever he could give me, at first.

And then, Tuesday night was there, Eric was setting up to grill steaks out back, and I was pacing the kitchen while Kelly sat calmly on the counter, happily picking carrots out of the salad beside her to munch on while we waited. The doorbell rang, and I sprinted to the door, but then waited in front of it, not wanting to seem too eager, finally opening it when I heard Kelly's laughter drifting behind me.

I knew I was being silly; I didn't need to be reminded.

He smiles, a little awkwardly, as do I, and I gesture him in. Kelly calls down the stairs from the open kitchen for him to come on up, and we exchange a less awkward grin over my friend's exuberance. I sigh in relief. Kelly is perpetually helpful.

We move up the stairs, into the open kitchen and dining room—the back door is open, and the smell of cooking potatoes is drifting in, along with the sounds of panting—Joey is sitting out on the porch next to a large golden retriever, with his plastic spatulas and plates, "helping" daddy cook supper. Kelly slides down from the counter, smiling and then hugging Gil, who looks surprised but not opposed to the warmth of her gesture.

"Gil, it's so good to see you again. I hope you like steak, we're grilling out. Come on, I'll introduce you to my husband." She knows he likes steak, she asked me before they decided what to cook tonight.

We follow her out onto the porch, and Eric turns, smiling. "Gil, this is Eric. Eric, Gil Grissom."

They shake hands, and Eric hands Gil a beer without a word. Gil takes it with a nod to thank him, and I grin. Men, apparently, need no words.

Kelly too smiles, and turns back to the house to finish her salad. Gil stops her. "Is there anything I can help with?"

She grins. "I've heard you're a pretty good cook, but I'm afraid we've got it under control. Why don't you and Sara sit, have a beer, and play with Joey and Puckett? Oh, Sara, I'll mix you a drink instead, I know you're prissy when it comes to beer." She sticks her tongue out at me when I shoot her a glare, and Gil laughs softly at the pair of us as we both sit in reclining lawn chairs, on either side of the baby and the dog.

Gil looks at me. "Puckett?"

I smile. "Eric's a big baseball fan. Kirby Puckett. …I'm not really sure who he is, truth be told, Kelly just wouldn't let him name the dog 'Kirby'."

He grins, and opens his mouth to speak, but then Joey is climbing into his lap, and I watch as Gil's expression softens. He would be such a gentle, loving father. …I wonder why he never had a family… he'd been in love before me, he'd told me as much… though he had implied it hadn't been the spent-your-whole-life-with-someone kind of love. …I wonder what kind of love he'd felt for me, before I ruined it. …I wonder if he still loved me… if he could ever love me again.

"Hey buddy, are you cooking steaks with daddy?"

"Daddy!" He says happily, pointing behind him at the quiet man beside the grill. We both smile. It was a serene, blissful, almost unreal moment of happiness, and I basked in it.

Eric moved inside for something, meeting my eyes for a moment to make sure I knew he was leaving and that I had Joey under my supervision. I winked at him, and he rolled his eyes. He was very protective of his little boy, even if he wouldn't voice it… he had always been a quiet man, but he was even more so around new people. …It was good that Gil wasn't a social butterfly either. They still understood each other.

"…Kelly is really good for you."

I turn in surprise at the comment, taking in the sight of a serious, respected scientist who was quirky and playful under the lab coat, seated on a floral-cushioned lawn chair with a toddler banging spoons together on his lap and a silly smile on his face. I didn't know whether I'd ever loved him more than in this moment, and my breath catches in my throat.

"W-what…?"

He smiles softly. "Kelly. She's good for you. You… you smile more, around her. And you… seem more confident. Self-assured."

I laugh. "I doubt that… I always feel like I must seem like a shy, awkward shadow behind all the glowing brightness that is Kelly."

He shakes his head. "I can see you thinking that way, but… it isn't true. …It's like… her presence makes you feel safe enough to let go, a little. You don't hold your shoulders so tensely… your eyes don't look around, anticipating some threat, large or small… you laugh."

I swallow hard. "I, uh… I was like that… with you."

He nods, slowly. "You were… in the beginning. Over Christmas you were guarded, most of the time… I think the beginning was the exception to the rule… but Kelly is another exception. You're not afraid, around her."

I bite my lip softly. "…She's the only person in my life whose never left me or… pushed too much."

He averts his eyes. "You talk to her more than you used to…? More than… once or twice a month?"

I nod. "Yeah, she's… she's pretty much the only friend I have. …We're both still busy, with work and all, but… when I moved to Berkeley, I was kind of off-the-radar for a while. …I'm trying not to let myself do that again. …We need each other." Mostly I just needed her. I was afraid of what would happen to me if I didn't have her.

He nods, and I know he understands that a good deal of my need—and my concern over disappearing again—stem from what has happened between us… but neither of us speak of it. It's simply understood. He doesn't speak, so I continue.

"Kelly's mother got really sick when she was about ten… it was just her and her dad, after that. Before she met Eric, we were… just about the only family each other had. I mean, she had her dad, but… there are some things an eighteen year old girl can't tell her dad, you know?

He nods, slowly, looking distracted. I tilt my head. "You okay, Gil?"

"Hmm? No, I'm.. I'm fine."

Eric steps out, smiling at Joey who is now nose-to-nose with Puckett, pointing very close to the patient dog's eyes, and saying slowly and deliberately, "Eyes." The dog licks him, and he giggles like crazy, and Eric turns to the pair of us, speaking to us for the first time since Gil has arrived—"How do you take your steak, Gil?"

Gil had rarely drunk around me, and never heavily. Maybe he was nervous, or just trying to be social, or maybe there was more weighing on his mind than I knew… but he and Eric polished off a six pack between them by the time dinner had finished, and then Kelly offered the men something stronger, since we were already drinking Strawberry Daiquiris—Kelly's favorite.

Joey went to bed shortly after—having been sitting on one of our laps most of the night or chasing Puckett around the kitchen—and then Kelly threw out the idea of a board game or cards.

I laugh and suggest we play Trivial Pursuit in teams, throwing Gil a sly glance. He grins, and it widens further when Kelly lets out an indignant refusal. "Right, and let you two stomp all over us!"

I shake my head. "Eric could get the sports questions… and you'd know entertainment."

She rolls her eyes. "And you guys will just take history, literature, science, and geography… right?"

Gil and I both laugh, and it feels good to laugh _with_ him, rather than just around him. It feels personal… shared.

After dismissing playing drunk scrabble, we break out the monopoly board, and spend the next three hours fighting for second place behind Eric's giant lead—but he's nice, at least. When you can't pay him, he waives the debt for small favors—a kiss from Kelly, Gil letting a whining Puckett out the back door, me mixing his next drink. The problem was that he was so far ahead he really didn't need us to pay him anymore.

I went bankrupt first, and spent the rest of the time trying to talk each of them into or out of property trades, and offering refills until Gil and Kelly were both mortgaging their property to pay each other, or pay chance cards, and we decided to just end it. Eric had won within the first half hour anyway.

I don't think any of us were drunk… but the idea of Gil driving frightened me, and I offered to give him the guest room and take the couch. He argued for the couch, and Kelly—who was probably even less buzzed than the rest of us for once—asked why the two of us couldn't just share a bed. Hadn't we shared one before, she argued? It was certainly big enough for two…

Eric gave her a strange look, and I didn't argue, because I wanted it. _God,_ I wanted it.

I look to Gil—he looks sort of strange… maybe he's had more to drink than I thought he had. He seems slow to think, slow to react, slow to respond… but eventually nods, claiming that it's fine. …Maybe he'd just been having some sort of internal battle… I could understand that.

So we cleared up the kitchen and trudged to our respective bedrooms, Gil and I much more awkwardly than the married couple across the hall from us. When our door had closed, I drew in a deep breath. "Gil, really, I'm… perfectly fine on the couch… I don't want you to be… uncomfortable."

And though the conflict is there in his expression again, he shakes his head. "It's a big bed, Sara. If I get… uncomfortable, I still have plenty of room on my side…"

I nod, somewhat awkwardly, and crawl into the bed fully dressed, sticking very close to my side. I had wanted this, yes, but I hadn't anticipated how strange it would be, nor how uncertain I would feel. I hear him sigh behind me, and the distinct sound of pants being removed and him slipping under the covers in his t-shirt and boxers. He stays on his side, but not on the extreme edge, like me. I glance over at him.

"We're just being silly, Sara. You shouldn't be uncomfortable all night. We're just… sleeping."

So I nod, and slip out of my jeans while still under the covers, letting them fall over the side of the bed to the floor, and then unhook my bra and pull it out through the sleeves of my shirt. I turn the lamp off, and lay down, thinking how awkward this is going to be, and how hard it will be to sleep with him again, when we're not intimate anymore. …How I probably won't be able to sleep at all.

I don't remember him turning his light off a moment later.

I must have been very tired. …The alcohol might have helped.

But I remember having the dream again. I remember being shaken. I remember screaming out loud, and I remember waking up the way I had the night after I'd gone to look for my mother—panting and shaking, crying and covered in sweat, and trying unsuccessfully to move from the bed and force myself to acknowledge reality.

Instead of sheets, this time, it's Gil's embrace which prevents me from rising. He pulls me tight to his chest, and rocks me, and soothes me, and yet I can't stop crying. No matter how hard I try, I can't, but he holds me until the watery, blue-gray light of before-sunrise creeps into the room, and we can see each other more clearly.

I tremble, and look at him, knowing that the fear is still in my eyes. I can feel it there, thick and unyielding. His eyes are soft, sympathetic, and he squeezes me tighter, to give me strength.

I bite my bottom lip, debating… knowing exactly how to clear the images from my mind and make sure I'd sleep peacefully…

I lick my lips, hesitating only a moment, and lean in to kiss him.

He backs his head away, out of my reach, and his eyes are conflicted. "…Sara, you're… emotional…"

"But… I love you. I… would want you… even if I hadn't had a nightmare." I say this as if it ends the discussion, but his eyes tell me it doesn't.

He looks down, but doesn't let go of me—he squeezes me tighter. "Honey, it… it _hurts_ too much."

I look up at him, confused. "It hurts… to be with me?"

He draws in a deep breath. "I told you, Sara, I… I keep seeing… _it_. I just… _can't._"

Tears fall slowly down my cheeks again, and he presses my head to his chest, wiping my them away softly. "Come on, honey, just lay here with me... Let's just… get some sleep, okay…?"

I nod, wanting to stay close to him, even though I know I won't sleep. I _can't_ sleep right now.

I didn't remember him pulling the covers over us, or brushing the hair from my face… I didn't remember him drifting to sleep after me and murmuring that he loved me too into my hair. I just remembered deep, dark, contented peace.


	57. Dating

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: We're getting close! ...Let me know what you think! As always, thanks for the reviews! :)

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Chapter 29: Dating

The rest of the conference was… strange. I can't say I wasn't rattled by Sara's nightmare—before she woke, she had been screaming incoherently, so loudly I felt certain she would wake the others in the house, about a myriad of things I didn't understand. Something about dust, and her mother, and not being crazy, and maggots, and the kitchen table. …I was pretty sure I'd heard my name as well, but then it was hard to understand her through her screaming and her wildly thrashing limbs.

And when she finally woke, it seemed to take her several seconds to even realize she was awake, and she was not the rational and slightly embarrassed woman who had woken from a nightmare the Christmas before last—she was a shuddering, shaking, inconsolable mass of grief and fear. It scared me.

When we woke the next morning, I tried to pretend that nothing had happened, because Sara had taught me that this was her preferred method of dealing with things, and she seemed to appreciate it. Kelly's eyes at breakfast were a little too aware for me to think she hadn't woken to hear Sara's screams, but she didn't say anything. They'd been roommates, in college… maybe she'd been witness to her share of nightmares.

And we talked, through the rest of the week—a lunch break here, coffee after or in between lectures—but it was different. I felt like, in refusing her that night… in denying her a physical escape from her pain into my arms… I had put a wall between us. It was not obvious; she still talked to me, smiled at me, drew in a quick breath whenever we accidentally came into contact with one another, however minor and platonic the action might be. But there was a distance there.

And she flirted with me—shamelessly. It felt like the first day we'd met, when she'd told me she liked sex on the beach, but insincere. There was a false bravado, if Sara could ever be accused of bravado. It almost felt like the flirting was part of the distancing—part of a façade I had never realized she could pull out and apply so seamlessly that I wasn't sure, at any given moment, if she was being honest and open with me or guarded and reserved.

It made me miss the Sara I had thought I didn't like, compared to _my_ Sara—tense shoulders, unsure how to speak, second-guessing constantly. I realized now that that was everyone else's Sara and the first one I'd met had been reserved just for me… and Kelly. And this one, the newest—she was the Sara of uncomfortable situations… the Sara pretending not to be afraid. She was a lie… convincing and charming, but still completely false. She was even a little Kelly-like… but toned down, and without the genuineness.

Still, the lie made the relationship easier. I was no longer worried that she was going to kiss me, or try to convince me to be with her… for some reason the flirting seemed to promise that, despite the contradiction in such a concept. And I relaxed—sometimes I flirted back, even. _Much easier._

We even shared another dinner, in the airport, before our flights left. We each paid for our own half, automatically… without even discussing it. That seemed like a sign; it was really and truly over—and maybe we could be friends, like I had told her we would be all that time ago. I liked the idea of a non-threatening Sara in my life again… a Sara who could make me smile and fill me with that light that only she possessed, without constantly tempting me back to what I knew could only bring pain and anger and regret.

But I determined, upon my return to Vegas, that I needed to actively date. If I was talking to her again, I couldn't let myself get caught up in her… I couldn't let myself feel like she was the only woman in the world to me, again, because then she stopped being non-threatening. It was a decision made for self-preservation's sake entirely, and it was more than necessary.

It was an active effort, on my part, to look at women as potential love interests—but the more I did this, the easier it became. Almost like it was natural, again.

I asked Charlotte—one of our fingerprint techs—out in the end of June. I didn't know very much about the woman—we were casual acquaintances, at work, but talked more about cases than about our personal lives. I asked her out because she had very sensual brown locks and a very straight-forward nature… she wouldn't be a woman who would play games or expect me to read between lines of fine print in a relationship. If a relationship ever occurred…

I was still receiving fliers for local art and theatre events and, not knowing the woman well, I decided that the easiest thing was simply to take her to one of their events. The problem was that Bill Clinton had, earlier in the month, declared June "Gay Pride Month." …Most of the productions were, therefore, centered around that theme. Theatre, in general, was nothing if not _proud_, after all.

I had actually been quite intrigued with some of the productions, when the flier arrived… but I didn't know this woman. I could hardly take her to a drag show or a play centered around the lives of homosexual individuals if she was… conservative. The only other production in the entire month was… interesting. It was the Wizard of Oz performed to the music of Pink Floyd. I thought it could be rather enlightened… or a dismal failure… but it was about all I had.

…I wasn't good at this dating thing—it seemed like with most of the women I'd dated, everything had come easily and naturally, with both of us deciding almost spontaneously what the night would entail. …I had only a little experience planning dates out ahead of time, especially for women I hardly knew.

…Needless to say it was an abysmal failure. The production hadn't been executed well, though by the look on her face when we left, she wouldn't have enjoyed it either way—which was sad, because dinner had been nice. To my extreme disbelief and surprise, I'm pretty sure she still wanted me to kiss her at her door, at the end of the night… but I wasn't really ready for that.

I smiled, and hugged her, and wished her good night… and made my escape. Hopefully she would just think I was old fashioned, waiting for the third date… after tonight, I was certain we wouldn't have a second date, much less a third.

…Still, I would keep dating… keep myself open to dating, anyway… I had to.

In the meantime, I broke down and dug out the terrarium, investing in an orange-kneed tarantula... this is weird, but it made me think of Sara… in a good way. And he was really rather gentle—granted, most tarantulas are, but in my mind, he was especially so.

…I named him 'Stevie' because when Laura and I had told Amber we couldn't get a puppy, shortly after we first moved in together, she had instead had an imaginary puppy… like an imaginary friend, but furrier, I suppose. I don't know where she got the name, but she called her puppy Stevie… and it stuck with me.

Within a week, Warrick had started calling him "Little Stevie" rather affectionately… but never when he was out of his terrarium. It was probably only because he was upset that Nick had named my fetal pig "Miss Piggy" before he could offer a name… I pretended to find this behavior childish, but it was endearing. It made me feel… paternal.

I was beginning to realize that this was a feeling I liked—that a part of me had missed _being_ a father, in addition to missing the children I'd lost. It came with a pang of pain and grief, but it was still a pleasant feeling, and I would have felt guilty if there weren't _some_ suffering involved—but maybe that was just the residual catholic in me.

Jim, for his part, didn't comment on anything in my office, as a rule. He had been rather angry, as of late—he was upset he'd had to make quite a few new hires, but in truth, we needed the help, especially in the lab. I often found Greg working trace, DNA, and doing the paperwork for the other assorted labs, just to help us keep up. …I lightened up on Greg, a little, once I realized how much he was putting into this job… I had really been rather unfair to him.

And we were getting a new CSI in August—I didn't have the time to agonize over how it should be Sara we hired, because it was basically decided for us. A lieutenant in the traffic division had a daughter who'd graduated from UNLV and would be fresh out of the academy in August, and apparently she'd cashed in a few favors throughout the department, because Jim acted like he didn't have a choice in the matter of hiring her.

We did need another CSI—the murder rate had been increasing at an alarming rate, and we were hardly keeping up with our cases—but I was reluctant to take a rookie we knew nothing about onto a team filled with the best forensic minds in the country… to give this… Holly Gribbs… a job that seasoned CSIs around the country would spend their entire careers working towards. But I wasn't angry at the girl for it, the way Jim was.

I just hoped she was up to the challenge.


	58. Friends Again

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Only two chapters left in part 2! ...I'm getting excited, and nervous. I think I've watched the pilot online like twenty times in the last week. I hope I don't mess up any details...

As always, thank you for the reviews and please leave more, I love them! :)

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Chapter 30: Friends. Again.

For the first time since I'd met Gil, I could honestly say that we were friends. Not together, not lovers, not avoiding or ignoring or pretending to be friends only to have sex via instant messaging… actually friends.

I was grateful for the change from not-speaking, but I found myself missing the honestly our relationship had previously had, even when confined to the computer. Now it felt like our real relationship existed beneath a blanket of lies… I flirted, and though everything I said was true, I said it without intent or conviction—it was mostly to hide how badly I did want him. I even talked about other men… joked about needing to get laid… joked about the hot DNA guy who had replaced Greg.

He didn't like it when I talked about Greg—although he did not indicate this directly, I could just tell. The tone of his voice changed, slightly. I wondered if he knew about Greg and I… but no, surely not. He would have said something.

And Greg… Greg _was _the type to brag about his exploits, but he rarely, if ever, used names. Behind the cocky exterior, he was very respectful of women. He wouldn't have said anything, of that I was certain.

Gil, for his part, joked about women as well. I think he only did this because of my comments—the ones I spoke specifically to hide how much it hurt to just be his friend, because I didn't want to lose that too. It was all I had. But he did tell me about an awful date he'd had—I think he only told me because it had gone so badly… something about Dark Side of the Moon and "Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!" preceding the poor woman getting up and walking out without a word to him.

When I asked why anyone would do a production like that, I was given an easy explanation—the internet had been filled with rumors that Dark Side of the Moon had been made to be a soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz, and that if you played the two simultaneously, certain phrases throughout the music coincided with the actions in the movie. Apparently, someone had taken this theory and applied the concept to theatre—but it hadn't been done well.

My next question had been why on earth he would take someone he hardly knew to something like that, on a first date (I think it said a lot that I did not ask why the hell he would want to go himself). …He told me it was that or a drag show, and I laughed so hard, and for so long, that by the time I had calmed down, I didn't remember to ask him to explain that comment.

What bothered me was that this was the only date he mentioned—which meant that, since he was dating now, apparently, he was not telling me about the ones that went well. I understood—I wouldn't feel comfortable telling him about anything that had gone better than his venture into Oz, and a large part of me didn't want to know anything about the subject as a whole.

A small part of me, though, couldn't handle the _not_ knowing. We didn't talk every night—one every week, week and a half, at most. But if he'd mentioned that he had a night off and didn't call me that night—whether he had just called me during the day or a few days before or a week before—I assumed he was with someone. And then I would lie awake, staring at my ceiling, unable to distract myself by reading, wondering how the evening was going and what he and the mystery woman were doing.

And then, as the night got later, I would imagine the dating winding down… I would imagine him kissing her at the door… her inviting him in. The first time this happened, I imagined the rejection easily—he had told me he always waited.

But by the second night I did this, I replayed everything he'd ever said to me about sex, and then I was convinced that he would have taken her—whoever she was—up on her generous offer. Half of the people he'd been with, before me, had been meaningless one-night stands. He wasn't promiscuous, per se, but he wasn't opposed to sleeping with someone he didn't intend to stay with, spontaneously.

And if she had meant something to him, well, there was every possibility that they'd been together long enough for him to give into his baser needs. I call them baser, because I was not the one fulfilling them. When I had been, they had been immaculate needs—the joining of our two bodies had always been nothing short of earth-shattering, and though I was hesitant about the whole concept of a higher being, the closest I'd ever come to believing in one had been when I looked into Gil's eyes, intertwined in a way so perfect that it had to be other-worldly.

If there was a God, I was convinced that he had devised love making as the perfect form of worship.

…Not sex. Certainly not meaningless sex. Any self-respecting God would turn his nose up at such a thing, which could, in all honesty, only be harmful to an individual, even if they never regret the action. Biology, Psychology, and Statistics could all prove such a thing, even if there were no religious decree to back it up.

But the act of love—the joining of two souls created for one another from the moment of conception and beyond the moment of death—certainly that was holy. Holier than anything I'd ever been witness to. The fact that it was pleasurable—that humans were hard-wired to want it… only proved my point. Psychologically, we were hard-wired to believe in a higher power too….. And any God I could believe in wouldn't create sexual beings if sex was shameful.

But with _her_, those needs and desires _were_ base and shameful. And if they hadn't been together long enough for him to give in—and if he didn't make an exception, like he had with me—then it was only a matter of time, as far as I was concerned.

I spent a lot of time staring at my ceiling.

It was just good that I was used to functioning without much sleep. And, on the bright side, no sleep meant no nightmares. _See,_ I mused bitterly to myself in the dark loneliness of a bedroom I had once shared with him, _there's always a silver lining_.

Yeah, right.


	59. Holly Gribbs

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So hopefully you all get alerts for this. Some people didn't get an alert and others got two... :(

I rewrote this chapter like a hundred times, because I really didn't want it to just be a summary of the episode. It still is, kinda, but hopefully only the pilot will be like that. There was just so much going on and I felt like I needed to include most of it, but for other episodes there won't be so much to include, I think.

If, as we get into part 3, you think there's too much summary, let me know and I'll lessen it up. I really want to focus on what happens in between episodes with only reference and inclusion of certain parts of episodes, but I don't want people to have to go re-watch the episode to understand the nuance of each chapter, you know? :)

Whew! Okay, enough talking. Please review!

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Chapter 31: Holly Gribbs

I don't know why I was surprised that the night was so horrible—generally, when there's so much going on, there has to be some amount of tragedy. Granted, not this much… but then, we worked with death every day. The fragility of life should come as no surprise.

She reminded me of Amber. Not necessarily in any distinct way—she didn't look like her or talk like her—but the way her lips parted around her teeth, and the way her eyes flickered from place to place when she was focused… it was like I was watching four year old Amber trying to spell her name from memory, or eight year old Amber working on math problems.

She was almost timid, though—timid but somewhat scathing also. What a strange combination. I felt like the hint of derision in her voice was comparable to Sara's bravado—a front, to hide the fear. Holly just wasn't as good as Sara was at disguising it. When she moved into Brass' office, I braced myself for the worst, knowing exactly how he'd been lately and exactly how fragile she appeared to be.

"So your mother is lieutenant Jane Gribbs from Traffic, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, congratulations, Gribbs! You're the…" A soft, almost bitter chuckle escapes his lips, "you're the fifth person I've been forced to hire!" He throws the file in his hand down to his desk with a sharp slapping sound. "We're the number two crime lab in the country. We solve crimes most labs render unsolvable. Now, what makes you think you belong here?"

In truth, it had been a long time since Jim had done any solving on his own. She looked at me, almost for support, and though I felt defensive of her, I kept my face impassive. I didn't want to speak for her if she was capable of defending herself… and I didn't want to undermine my boss' authority so directly, either.

But she turned back to Brass as soon as she saw that I wasn't about to jump to her rescue, despite my previous supportive behavior, and met his eyes without hesitation.

"Sir, with all due respect, I thought the key to being a lucid Crime Scene Investigator was to reserve judgment until the evidence vindicates or eliminates assumption." She drew a deep breath, as if to steel herself to continue the confrontation. I glanced at Jim, and he had an amused smile on his face—mocking. I didn't return it. "You're prejudging me. I graduated, with honors, in criminal justice at UNLV."

I was impressed.

"Yeah, so?"

This flusters her, a little. "That's not fair."

"Fair? And you think putting a juiced-in lieutenant's daughter on the shift is fair?" I frowned, just slightly. It wasn't fair, but Jim played politics and called in favors as much as anyone else. Something I never ceased to be grateful for, in truth, though I was not good at politics myself; it had allowed me to provide for Amber.

"You know, I've been in the field twenty-two years, I've seen it all." Holly glanced nervously between the pair of us again. "I've seen people like you come and go, and you know what? They don't amount to nothing but headaches and bad press." She looked away from him, defeated, and I too averted my eyes. He was crossing the line.

"Dismissed."

He sat down and I watched her struggle—in part to control her temper in front of her new boss and in part, I think, to control her emotions. "Fine," she muttered, and turned and left the room. I turned to him, feeling that I could speak more freely without her present. I pursed my lips.

"You think you got through to her?" My voice wasn't angry, though slightly indignant—but he was not about to let me question him, even in subtle sarcasm and disapproving tone. He disregarded my question completely.

"You're scheduled to appear at an autopsy at 12:30 a.m. They're cutting up that bozo that put a hole in his chest—Take her with. I think every new hire should experience an autopsy on their first night."

I narrowed my eyes and walked out, getting extremely tired of the angry man who had overtaken my boss. It wasn't doing the lab any good.

The autopsy didn't go well. She went in strong, brave, even commenting on how the body didn't look real. But the minute the coroner started to cut into the body, her face started to change, and then she was running from the room looking for a bathroom, no doubt to vomit in. The smell was something that took a very long time to get used to.

And then there was distant, muffled screaming and I found myself racing into the hallway, frantic—she'd gone into a storage room, full of bodies, which locked automatically from the outside. I let her out and caught her hand as she ran, wanting so badly to comfort this poor girl—panting about bodies and feeling them breathing—to make up for the bad start to the night and bring a smile to lips so reminiscent of my little girl's.

I chuckled softly and pulled her into a hug—uncharacteristic of me, but she needed it, and it felt as natural as embracing Amber had been. But the hug didn't stop her trembling, nor did my words of comfort, and I instead turned and yelled a curse at the bodies she'd left behind, hoping to draw a laugh from her frantic eyes and still-panting, muttering lips. She laughed nervously, shakily, and I couldn't resist putting hands to her face and chuckling again.

I was reminded, once more, of my baby—she'd found a spider in the bathtub and had run, positively screaming, to her mother, who grabbed a paper towel to squish it for her. I looked away, knowing that Laura would still dispose of the creature whether I argued or not, when Amber's voice rose in the protest I had stifled. We let the spider go outside.

...I let Holly sit out the rest of the autopsy, winking and telling her not to tell Brass. She nodded and smiled gratefully, still shaking, and then Brass gave me an assignment to pass on to her. A burglary in a liquor store.

She could have taken a department vehicle, but I didn't want to leave her just yet—I didn't want her to feel alone, even though I had piles of work back at the lab to occupy me, not to mention the blunt-force trauma case from the country club and the staged-suicide victim we'd discovered just the night before. But I dropped her off, made sure she knew how to get in contact and knew what to do, and I let her go in.

There was no reason to believe she wouldn't be just fine. It was a very basic scene to process…

I found out later that the store owner had held her at gunpoint and Catherine had had to respond—and that wasn't even the worst of the night. Catherine had been late, which sent Brass off on another tirade, Warrick and Nick were competing for who would reach CSI level 3 first, Catherine ended up getting called off of Warrick's case to deal with a little girl who'd been sexually assaulted, and Warrick had gone over Brass' head to get a warrant directly from a judge.

I returned to the lab—after clearing the only suspect we had on my staged-suicide… apparently he used to own hand to make a mold for a novelty rubber hand sold during Halloween… ten thousand different people could have planted his print at the scene—in time to hover outside Jim's office and hear the fight between Warrick and Jim.

Even if Jim was wrong—about the warrant, about the toenail, about the entire way he was treating our team—Warrick had lost sight of what was important. He was more worried about his promotion than the case itself. Jim called me in to lay out Warrick's punishment—shadowing Holly for three weeks or until Nick got his promotion—and I dragged Warrick back out before he could get himself suspended.

I yelled at him about his priorities, and remaining objective, in part because he needed to hear it… but in part because I really wanted to yell at Brass instead, about the dramatic shift he'd made in the last year. Warrick had said that many people walked every day because of him, and lately, this was true. I was about the only person he treated half-way decent anymore.

If nothing else, watching me yell at Warrick seemed to convince Jim that I was on his side—he called for a warrant on the toenail, even though he'd denied the same request from the younger man, and I took up the case, despite the fact that I had a blunt force trauma case from a country club on my desk and the staged-suicide which had apparently gone cold. It was something Warrick needed—vindication. And I felt the need to provide support in the way I could.

The striations matched, and we got the guy—I called Warrick to let him know, and we was at the scene in minutes, standing with me to watch the man taken away. It was a moment in which we didn't need to communicate—he was thankful, and I was apologetic for yelling at the man. …And we were both silently pleased that Jim had been wrong… that we had prevailed.

As an afterthought, I realize he isn't with Holly—apparently she was printing a robbery scene with an officer. We head back to the lab to hear that Nicky had cracked his case—he was a CSI level 3. I congratulated him, and there was another moment—Warrick's gracious congratulations, Nick's understanding handshake, Catherine's offer of breakfast for the team… Again, I felt that strange sense of belonging. I really believed I was starting to love these people, and that the job was more than a devotion or a distraction or the thing I'd chosen to give an empty life meaning… it was a home, almost.

And then Jim walked in, and tore apart the little lab family I had just been so proud of… Holly had been shot at the scene, we were pulling a double to investigate, and Warrick was on administrative leave until his whereabouts could be verified. They didn't think Holly was going to make it.

She had reminded me of Amber. She was so young. They thought she was going to die.

But like I said, death was a daily reality for us. It should have come as no surprise…

But I _was_ surprised. I was surprised by how hard it hit me… how much it hurt me. How sudden and unpredictable and chaotic death could be, which I had certainly known and understood before now…

Even though we needed to pull a double… find the person who had done this to her… seek out justice and follow the evidence and every other line I had ever used to motivate my team or inspire a lecture audience… I just wanted to call Sara. I needed to call Sara. I needed to hear her voice, and know she was alive, and safe, and that this life had not taken yet another person from me…

And again, to my surprise, I called her.


	60. The Call

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Wow! The last chapter of Part 2! I'm so excited and so nervous! Lol, sooo, tell me what you think

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Chapter 32: The Call

Gil never called me in the morning. On the rare occasions that he left the lab on time, I was busy getting ready for work, and even if I talked to him on the commute, I'd managed to take enough side roads to cut my commute down to a half hour. It wasn't really worth it.

So when it came at seven a.m., it surprised me, to say the least. I had just gotten out of the shower and was tapping my foot to the radio still playing in my bathroom on the tile floor of my kitchen, slicing a banana into my cereal. I was irritated at the ringing, setting my fruit on the counter and hurrying back to the bedroom to catch it before it went to voicemail—I was certain it was work, and I really didn't want to come in early. With my commute, to get anywhere within the next hour I'd have to skip breakfast and blow drying my hair.

I caught it and opened it frantically; hoping I'd caught it in time. I hadn't looked to see who was calling.

"Sidle." I say, expecting to hear the voice of my boss, always too familiar.

"Sara." It comes on a sigh, and is not a question but a statement, almost in relief, and in the most beautiful voice I had ever known. I smile widely, even though it's strange to be hearing from him so early.

"Gil. Hi. You off work?"

He lets out a shaky breath. "No, I… I'm about to pull a double, and… listen, I… I know I don't have… any right to ask for any favors…"

"Ask me anything." I say, too eager, and then I immediately regret it. His hesitant tone and clear relief that I had answered had thrown me off—I'd forgotten to act like I didn't want him. I clear my throat. "I mean… you've done your fair share of things for me…"

There. That was better. I owed him. That was why he could ask me anything.

"You know I told you we had a new girl starting, last night?"

I nod, and then speak, realizing he can't see me. "Yeah?"

"She… she was shot, at a scene… they, uh… They don't think she's going to make it."

I sit down on the edge of my bed. "Oh, Gil, I… I'm so sorry."

There's a brief moment of silence, and then he clears his throat.

"What, uh… what I wanted… to ask is… Warrick Brown, one of my CSIs, was… supposed to be shadowing her. He left her at the scene with an officer, before… before it happened. …Jim has been reassigned to homicide and I… I guess, am heading up the unit. For now. Uh… I really don't want IA involved but there needs to be an investigation into where Warrick was and… why he left… and I need it to be someone I can trust—"

"Of course I'll do it." I rush out, because he's babbling. He doesn't usually—I'm the one who over-talks and he's the one whose silence leaves my head spinning.

He lets out a deep sigh of relief. "I'm not sure how long it'll take, but… I can get you a flight in a little over two hours, if… that's okay."

I nod again. "Yeah, of… of course. I need to… call my supervisor and… clear it with him."

"I'll call him. He'll probably respond better if I ask him if I can use his CSI first, before just taking you…"

I swallow hard. "Right… Okay, um… well, call me back when you know… when you talk to him… I'll start packing. Two hours, you said?"

"It takes off at 9:20. I'll… I'll let you know."

"Okay. Thanks, Gil."

"I'll… see you soon, Sara."

He hangs up, and my hand is trembling as I turn my own phone off.

I'm going to Vegas… I'm going to see Gil again. He… he needed a competent CSI he could trust, and he thought of _me_. I breathe in deeply to calm myself. True, he was in the midst of a tragedy… the last thing he would be thinking about would be me, and forgiving me… he still just expected me to be a friend. But still, the fact that he trusted me… was asking me to come to Vegas again…

I packed faster than I probably ever had in my life. I received a call about twenty minutes later—Gil now owed my lab several insect timeline consultations, but I had been cleared to help as long as I was needed. He gave me the address to the crime lab, and we hung up again—he seemed distracted, but then, I was certain he had a lot on his plate.

I called my boss to be certain—he teased me about not being stolen away to another lab, and I laugh at his bad joke, just grateful that he's being so gracious about it. I don't tell him that I would go to the Vegas lab in a heartbeat, but that I'm not wanted there, long term.

I finish packing everything I can think of needing, double-check my kit, and rush out the door—I still have the commute ahead of me. It was the longest drive of my life, and the longest wait in security of my life, and the longest plane ride of my life… and as I peered out my window at the rough, rocky, mountainous terrain surrounding the city of sin, the city of lights… I was filled with anxious anticipation, a thrilling nervousness, and deep trepidation.

I needed to remind myself that I was here in a professional sense. And that we were friends. Only friends. Nothing more. He hadn't called me there to be his lover. I was investigating his CSI. As the plane slowly began its descent, I closed my eyes again, taking in measured breaths, focusing on the false confidence I had relied on my entire life to get me through any event in which I felt I could not be my honest self.

Going into Vegas, into a top lab in the country, investigating a person that Gil had chosen to work at his lab when he hadn't picked me—for whatever the reason—was intimidating enough… add to it that Gil would be suffering and hardly needed me pining over him, our careful friendship hanging precariously in the balance, as well as his opinion of me professionally—he had never truly seen me work as a CSI, and I was as anxious for his approval in that regard as in every other—and it was pretty clear why I needed to seem stronger than I was.

I plastered a smile on my face, pulling sunglasses to block out the Vegas sunlight, and moved off the plane with a self-assurance I did not feel, collecting my baggage and grabbing a taxi almost immediately. I gave the address to the Crime Lab, and spent the drive continuing my measured breathing. My whole façade would go to hell if I passed out from lack of oxygen.

My hands were shaking as I moved into the Crime Lab, but I stilled them by concentrating on little movements—I pushed my sunglasses into my hair, straightened my tank top over my pants—until I reached the desk.

"Hi, my name is Sara Sidle, from the San Francisco Crime Lab. I'm looking for Gil Grissom."

The woman smiled. "Oh, yes, Sara Sidle… I have something for you…" My eyes narrowed, but she didn't notice as she was digging through papers on her desk. "Oh, here we go. Grissom said to tell you he's at a scene… here's the address," she passed me a slip of paper as well as an LVCL badge, "but that you can meet him there if you arrived before he got back…"

I glance at the address and back at the woman who had referred to him by his last name. How strange. "How long ago did he leave?"

She looks at a clock over my head and shrugged. "Less than an hour, I'd say…"

I breathe in deeply and force a smile. "Okay, thank you."

I turn to leave and am immediately encased in a hug. I stiffen and back away, because I have no idea who has their hands on me, but as his face comes into focus, I break into a smile and my eyes light up. "Greg! Hey, how are you?"

He grins, and I can't help but hug him again as he answers--I had really missed him.

"I'm doin' good… I heard the boss man called you in from Frisco… the team isn't exactly happy about it."

I nod, at what I'm not sure. "Well, I can't really do much about that…" At least I had some warning… At least Gil wasn't here to see Greg and I's reunion..."Listen, Greg, I gotta get to a scene, but before I leave town, we'll get lunch or something, yeah?"

He grins. "Yeah, of course. You better get going; Grissom gets grumpy when you make him wait…"

I smile, but my eyes narrow again. Greg had called him by his last name too… Did everyone call him that? Or did they call him Gil? …Dr. Grissom? It was like Greg to shorten a title from Dr. So-and-so to just So-and-so… but would the receptionist do that?

I manage to hail another taxi and, sighing, slide inside again, my luggage still in tow. I gave the address on the slip I'd been given and leaned back into the seat. Now I was going to have to track him down at a crime scene…


	61. Fathering a Lab

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Ahh! I can't believe I've gotten so far with this story. So, I'm still trying to update every day, but I'm no longer ahead of what I'm posting, and I'm hesitant to post anything before I can proof-read it well. I don't worry so much about that with my other stories, but Destiny is my baby, right now. Hehe. Anyway, hopefully I'll be able to keep up with it, but if it take a day or two sometimes, that's why.

Oh, and I promise that even though this is a lot of episode-following right now, I plan to have chapters in-between episodes... at least one, but sometimes two or three, depending... especially because, from what I can tell, there isn't necessarily a set amount of time between episodes. Sometimes it's a day, sometimes it's a week, sometimes they don't tell you but then all of a sudden it's Halloween... :) So I'm kinda playing it by ear as I rewatch episodes.

Okay! Thanks for all the reviews, they really and truly do mean the world to me. Let me know what you think!

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Part Three: Las Vegas

Chapter 1: Fathering a Lab

I called Sara to let her know I'd cleared it with her supervisor—and possibly sold my soul in the process… he talked about her like she was the best CSI he had, despite the fact that she had just become a level three the previous summer. Well, if she worked a scene as well as she could think through one, it was probably true. …and then I had to talk to the team. _My_ team, now.

Nick, as usual, was all too willing to help in whatever capacity—Catherine was demanding, but then, I could see the guilt in her eyes over Holly's shooting. She had convinced her to stay… so she told me to fire her if I wanted to keep her off the case, and she knew I wouldn't. Of course she knew that. …But it was kind of like Warrick needing to get the guy with the toenail, the night before… he had needed validation. Catherine needed absolution.

…Then again, Holly had ended up dead because I had indulged in Warrick's need for validation.

Warrick wasn't happy that I was keeping him on paid leave, but then I don't know exactly what he'd expected. I knew that we had a much better relationship than he'd ever had with Brass, but I still had to think about the lab, and the team, and Holly, first. …Besides, if I knew Sara—and I prided myself on thinking that I knew at least the essence of who she was, if not the details of the road she'd taken in life—Warrick needed to get his story straight… she would not go easy on the man simply because I cared for him.

I didn't want her to.

I had called her in part because I had just needed to hear her voice, but mostly because I knew that she would be fair, and precise, and detailed… she would seek the truth, unconcerned about who she was protecting… except, perhaps, for me. I don't know how I knew this for certain, but I was somehow the exception to every one of Sara's rules… sometimes, though, that just wasn't enough.

The entire time I was at the scene with Nick, I kept looking over my shoulder—surreptitiously scanning the crowd for her dark, chocolate curls. And as Nick threw the "Norman" dummies over the roof of the Hotel Monaco, I knew she was there. I scanned the crowd of people who cheered while watching imitation-people thrown to their deaths, thinking how silly it was that a crowd would gather for nearly anything… and though I didn't see her, I knew she was present.

I took the pictures as needed, commenting on each to myself, my whole self waiting… and there she was, her voice coming from behind me in that teasing, over-confident way she had, a smile audible in her words.

"Norman fell."

"Wouldn't you, if you were married to Mrs. Roper?" It doesn't occur to me to wonder how she knows the actor, or who Mr. Roper was—she must have be younger than ten when "Three's Company" had been on. It doesn't even occur to me to consider these things—I simply react, when Sara is around.

"I don't even have to turn around;" I didn't. I had known she was here. "Sara Sidle."

But I do turn, and she's as beautiful as I remember, maybe even more so. I can tell that she didn't blow dry her hair today, and that she had only put on as much make up as she had time for… because she'd been rushing out of the house, for me. I like her curls like that—down and tightly spun and even a little wild. It reminds me of nights spent in passion and mornings spent in sleepy affection.

"It's me!" She says, her voice lilting, just slightly, before teasing me about the dummies—we had had this argument many times, as she favored computer simulations, but I reiterate my side anyway, and she nods, stating a truth about me she already knows well; "You're old-school."

She asks about Holly—of course, that's the reason she's here—and looks genuinely sad when I tell her that she isn't doing well. Without thinking, I slip into old habits—I speak the way I would speak to the Sara who was my lover and friend, not the way I would speak to a self-assured but distant Sara.

"God, Sara, I have so many unanswered whys…"

"There's only one why that matters now…" She meets my eyes again, but her voice is brisk, like she isn't exactly certain how to respond to the hint of vulnerability in my mine. "Why did Warrick Brown leave that scene?"

I draw in a deep breath, and quickly give her the details of the night as I remember them—the argument with Jim, Warrick going to the judge, shadowing Holly as a punishment rather than a department procedure… When I make this distinction, she raises an eyebrow and I realize she thinks I'm being biased in favor of my CSI… and I am, in truth, but I can't help it. That's why _she_'s doing the investigation…

I had last seen Warrick at the lab, so that is where I send her to find him—and Catherine, who is working Holly's case—though I'm not exactly certain whether he'll still be there, as he's on leave… Chances are, though, that he'll stick close to the lab—he wants to know what's going on. She leaves, taking a bit of me with her, and I feel slightly less competent, slightly less energized, with her gone.

Sara was fast though—fast and thorough. Before we had arrested the dead jackpot winner's girlfriend, the report had been placed on my desk inside a manila envelope. It was clear and concise—Warrick Brown had not followed the proper procedure for clearing a scene, and directly violated his supervisor's instructions. He did not give a justifiable reason for leaving Holly alone at the scene, nor did he notify dispatch that he was leaving.

On a sticky note, however—meant only for me—she wrote that when she suggested he had left in order to lay a bet, he had not affirmed nor denied it. She didn't include this information mostly because it was speculation… the rest of the report was direct and strictly factual. But I knew there was a part of her that had wanted me to know the truth… and still allow me the freedom to make a decision about my CSI. An informed decision, but without pressure from my superiors.

Cavallo wanted me to fire Warrick—and I believed, in truth, that I would have to… but when it came down to it, I found myself admitting my own fault in the entire situation—Warrick had stood with me for ten minutes while the suspect was taken into custody… I had thought of Holly as an afterthought… we had gone back to the lab, together. He hadn't believed he'd done anything wrong, until after it was done… and I hadn't either. I was as much at fault, if not more…

I didn't fire him.

We all stand outside PD waiting for Jerrod Cooper to be taken to a prison, until a judge could set or deny bail… because we all need to see that Holly's death isn't going unpunished… we need to know that we did the best we could for her… and we need to ease our own guilt over what happened, and what role we each played, and what we could have done differently, to have prevented this…

Sara is standing close beside me, but she doesn't speak—she looks at me evenly, unblinkingly, and there is no bravado in her gaze. She looks like she's searching, and I turn to face her, to try to determine what she's looking for, but after a moment she averts her eyes. The only thing I could think of… is that Warrick is here, standing with us, badge and gun in tow. He's still a member of the team.

For a moment, I second-guess myself… wonder if I should have been strict about protocol and procedure and adherence to orders. …But I'm unwilling to give up one of the best CSIs I'd ever worked with for a mistake which hadn't been obvious, even to me… I don't want to lose any one else. The grateful look he gave me when I returned his badge and service weapon… the fervor in his voice when he said he wouldn't let me down… It made me feel paternal, all over again--every bit the father of the lab I had wanted to be, when I could be father of nothing else.

And yet, once again, I found myself a father who had lost a child. Holly had died, far too young, far too soon.

Apparently, that was the story of my life.


	62. Stay

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: I may still get another chapter up tomorrow, but in case I don't, I figure I'd post tonight. Thursdays are always busy. Oh, and just in case it's confusing, at the end of Cool Change, Grissom says 'Let's go home' to everyone, and then you see Sara stalk off... :) So, we're taking off from there...

Let me know what you think! As always, thanks for the reviews! :)

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Chapter 2: Stay

"Let's go home." He says, glancing over all of us, but not meeting my eyes.

I shake my head, turning and walking away from him and his _team_. Apparently I was done now. Apparently I was going home. _Apparently_, I'd only been needed to come play the bad guy and write a report, which would be ignored, and then be sent home again. Good. _Great._ Wonderful.

Other than our brief meeting in front of the Hotel Monaco, in the midst of a crowd, we had hardly spoken since I arrived. He had sent me from McCarran to the lab, to the hotel, back to the lab, and then off on a wild goose chase through a myriad of casinos, seeking out each and every blackjack table with only a picture and a vague description of the clothing the man was wearing.

Although Greg had been a friendly face, I had had to talk down the infamous _Catherine_ from biting my head off—once she'd admitted who she was, that is. In truth, beyond the first rough moments with her, Catherine and I had gotten along rather well… but she was a beautiful woman, closer to Gil's age, and I knew he confided in her… trusted her. And she was single now; Gil had often mentioned worrying about how Lindsey was dealing with the divorce.

She was blonde. Even though I'd offered Gil by blind trust and had promised myself I wouldn't stress over _Laura_ and what she meant to him… I couldn't help but feel nervous about blondes. Besides simply having been a dark-haired girl growing up in an America that offered up Barbie as my role model… I remember all too vividly how I'd questioned if he'd really liked long-legged brunettes or whether that had simply been a degree of separation from Laura and her striking golden locks.

It made sense; I knew I would never be able to look at another man with salt-and-pepper curls again… if I ever got over Gil. If I ever took another lover. Surely, someday, I might want someone else...?

She called Gil 'Grissom' too. …I hadn't yet met anyone in Vegas who called him by his first name. This made me wonder if he preferred it, and just hadn't corrected me to be nice… It made me wonder how much I knew about the man, in general.

And after tracking down the subject of my investigation—who was none too friendly himself—and submitting a report which clearly stated that he had no good reason to have left Holly Gribbs alone at the scene, he was here, unscathed and basking in the forgiveness and continuing approval of the man who could not bring himself to forgive me, even years after my indiscretions.

Although I had smoked since I was roughly thirteen years old, though not habitually when I was that young, I had never found it hard to stop when I chose to—apparently mind-over-matter was a real and valid concept. I had stopped while I dated Tyler, and Michael, and when I met Gil, because I found the habit as disgusting, and imagined they would as well… and though I had picked it up again the minute I was left alone, I had always been able to stop while around Gil…

The entire time I'd been in Vegas—since Gil had called me, really—I'd been craving a cigarette like nobody's business.. like my life depended on it. I'd picked up a pack of Nicorette in the airport, simply thinking that it would curb the cravings… and I had been popping the gum like an addict popping pills ever since. But then, apparently I was an addict. A real addict, now… not the kind who could put my drug-of-choice aside at a moment's thought.

And now… now I was going home, after only a day and a conversation with the man I had rushed here to assist. I couldn't handle this and I wasn't going to. If I was going to be sent home… if I wasn't getting even a thank you after he disregarded my report without a thought… then maybe that was it.

Maybe I would have to move… and change my phone numbers… my email. Maybe I would just have to cut the man out of my life, as he had done to me, if he couldn't forgive me and he couldn't respect me and he couldn't love me. How else was I supposed to go on living, clinging desperately to a set of hopes that had been lost to me two years previously?

But then his hand falls on my shoulder, and everything changes… I know it's him before I turn, because I know his hands as intimately as I know my own. I know the look in his eyes as I turn—he's confused, and looking politely bewildered and hesitant. My eyes soften in response—maybe I'd been letting my insecurities get ahead of me… again—and I know the smile that his eyes return. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that no matter what this man did to me, I could never really cut him out of my life…

It would hurt too much. …It would kill me.

"Hey… you did great on the case… I know that it wasn't as personal, to you, as the others, but… I appreciate it." I beam; I'm wrapped around his finger all over again.

"Thanks… I'm not sorry we caught the guy but… I'm almost disappointed that it didn't take longer. It almost seems like a wasted trip…" Especially since he could have just _pretended_ I investigated Warrick, for all the consideration my report had been given.

"Well, maybe you could stick around, for a day or two… I had to agree to some hefty demands to get you here. I'd hate to see that go to waste…" He grins, trying to coax one from me as well.

Of course I give it to him. Could I deny him anything?

"Hefty demands? You told me you had to do a timeline consultation or two…"

He chuckles softly. "Well, it was a bit more than that, I just didn't want you to feel guilty. He was…rather reluctant to part with you. He must think you're a pretty talented CSI."

I roll my eyes, averting my gaze. "Yeah… he's full of compliments, but you can't really be certain if he means them or if he just thinks they're going to get him somewhere…"

He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask where he thinks he's going to get. I laugh. "My pants." Both eyebrows are up now. I shrug. "He's got personal space issues…"

He shakes his head, as if to clear the image evoked by my words. "Anyway… I, uh… I could check you into a hotel for a day or so, if you wanted to stay a while… I'll still have to work, we're short a CSI now, but… you know, it could be nice to spend some time together… again."

His words would have made me hopeful, except for the hotel stipulation. Truthfully, even without romantic undertones, I want this more than anything… but I hadn't imagined I would stay in a hotel. The man had a guest bedroom, after all. I look down, because I know that my confident façade is slipping, and I can't afford to let him see the raw emotion on my face—he knows me too well to not understand.

I swallow hard. The moment of truth—do I bring up Warrick? Do I run, again? Do I take what I can get from him and be happy with it, because it's still better than anything I could have without him…?

I nod, almost crying with the effort of biting back my arguments about the CSI who was apparently trusted more than me as well as my screaming accusations of his unfairness, keeping me holding on for nothing. In absolute resignation, I keep my head bowed and I nod and nod, because I can find no words to describe how I feel, nor any outlet for my overwhelming desire to fling myself into his arms and beg him just to love me.

I almost wish I was back in Berkeley, just now… shift would be over, and with any luck I'd be sinking into a hot bath with a book, entertaining fantasies of this man, rather than forced to face him and the impossibility of each and every one of those fantasies…

But then, he isn't in Berkeley, and I would take the sweet torture of his presence over and over again, because there is nothing worse than his absence. I could handle the abuse, and the fighting, and the drinking… the trips to the hospital, and the fear… I could endure watching my mother kill my father and lose her mind in the process… and I could tolerate my brother discovering me under the table in a kitchen covered in blood and my mother's vacant smiles…

But I could not bear his absence a second longer… so I stayed.


	63. Fight

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Here's another chapter. :( It made me sad just proof-reading it, so fair warning...

I might have to rewatch the very end of tonight's episode, because it made me all kinds of happy... I love CSI, even if they tricked me into thinking we'd get a Grissom cameo... and even if they took _forever_ to put Sara in another episode... Grr!

Anyway, let me know what you think... :)

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Chapter 3: Fight

Sara and I had never fought. Not really. When she left me, for the most part she made calm accusations and I watched her leave in silent bewilderment. When I stopped talking to her… I told her I loved her and said goodbye, before I tried to block her out of my life. When I had spoken too personally in instant messages, she had merely signed off… When she tried to kiss me in Kelly's guest bed, I rationally told her I couldn't, and though she had cried, we hadn't raised our voices in anger.

So when we had our first fight—and over a topic which completely confused me—I was hardly prepared for it.

The night had started normally enough—having all pulled a double, the team was on-call but otherwise going home to get some much needed sleep. I had booked Sara into a hotel room—having not realized she'd stashed her luggage in my office after I gave her no indication of how long or where she would be staying. I considered giving her my guest bedroom but… lines were so easily blurred with Sara, and I couldn't imagine spending another night in bed with her and making the same decision to not be intimate.

I ran home for a quick shower and a change of clothes and picked her back up at the hotel about an hour later—she looked like she'd showered too. Her curls, which had been pinned up around her face later in the day, now looked softer and more controlled. Her eyes were bright, and the smile as exuberant as ever, but there was a pinched look in her eyes too… a tightness I couldn't define.

Maybe I should have seen it coming.

We decided on one of the restaurants downstairs, and were seated shortly after, which was a rare treat when eating in a Vegas hotel. She sighs softly as we take our seats and I take a minute just to breath in the moment—no one had ever filled me up the way she did with nearness alone.

"So, what did you think of the team…? Were they all what you expected?" She had heard a great deal about all of them from me, which, in retrospect, could have biased her report, but it clearly hadn't… I'd always spoken of Warrick in glowing terms.

She tilts her head, a small smile on her face. "They were… very like your descriptions. Still, though, they surprised me, a little. I think they must act differently, around you, than they do when you're not around…"

I cock an eyebrow. "I suppose that's true. What surprised you…?"

She grins. "Catherine caught Cooper by offering him a 'little bling-bling…' though neither of us really knew what it meant…"

I chuckle—the seductive tone her voice took on when mimicking Catherine actually sounded very like the woman… and left no doubt in my mind to the sexual undertone of the phrase. "Yeah, she's… fearless." I say, because it's a trait which I both admire and find eternally frustrating. The corners of Sara's mouth turn down.

"Nick seemed nice… I didn't see him much, but he looks at you like… like the sun rises and sets at your discretion." I shift uncomfortably in my chair—I knew Nick viewed me as a mentor, but that kind of devotion made me uncomfortable, to say the least. To hide this discomfort, I change the subject—

"What did you think of Warrick?"

This was obviously not a wise choice. Her eyes widen just slightly, her eyebrows rise almost to her hairline, and her lips part in surprise—she paints a pretty picture, but there's a fire in her eyes that I've seen before… but never directed at me. It is somehow fiercer when I'm the object of its attention—I can almost feel the heat against my skin.

"I thought he should have been fired. I think that was pretty clear."

Her voice is harder than I expect, though the fire should have warned me. My head moves back in surprise, but I try to answer calmly… rationally.

"I asked you here to investigate… not make the final decisions in my team."

"_Your_ team? You've been the acting supervisor for all of a day. You weren't willing to risk your job as a top CSI in the lab to have me in Vegas with you, but you're willing to risk your supervisor position over a man who is responsible for the death of a young girl?"

My eyes narrow. That isn't fair, and she knows it. I see the acknowledgement of it in her eyes, but it seems to make the fire burn hotter. "He wasn't responsible for her death. He didn't follow orders, but it isn't lab policy to accompany rookies to scenes that are low-profile, straight-forward, or low-risk. PD is going to be investigating too, as to why the officer on the scene left."

She rolls her eyes, scathingly. "Regardless, you let me walk away for just the thought of those people's disapproval. But for him, you couldn't care less. He can place bets instead of following orders, but if I—"

"Sara." I interrupt, too harshly, because I won't go down that road again. I've relived the day enough times in my own mind without having to walk through it, moment by moment, with her. She stops, abruptly, and I close my eyes. "We both know that you left without giving me a chance. We both know that I didn't choose my job over you. And we both know that, as an investigator—either in the field or just doing me a favor—your job is to collect the evidence and let someone else decide what to do with it."

Her lovely lips pucker now, the same way they do when she's being playful or seductive, but they're thinner in anger. They draw her whole face down. "Yeah, but the DA doesn't ignore me when I hand him a gun with bloody fingerprints on the grip. If my efforts were merely a show so that you could pretend you were being fair… if I was simply helping you hide under some false guise of morality… then you shouldn't have wasted my time bringing me here."

Again, I'm taken aback. I draw in a deep breath. "Sara… hours before Warrick left her at a scene, I dropped her off at burglary at a liquor store in which she had a gun drawn on her by the owner… the only difference was that Jim hadn't told me to shadow her. …He's not guiltier of her death because she died at his scene and not at mine... or because Brass let his power go to his head… I couldn't fire him without stepping down myself."

Her lips fall open again, and she blinks too often, as if trying to disguise the apology in her eyes. I see it anyway. I exhale slowly, softening my voice.

"Sara… I don't believe her death was Warrick's fault, though he certainly blames himself. And I didn't call you here for appearances' sake. I believed that I didn't have a choice—I was going to fire him, once I'd read your report. …This team is the only family I have, Sara…" The look in her eyes tells me this hurts her, but there's nothing to be done for it. "…and if Warrick didn't do anything which truly endangered her—like leaving her without an officer—then I'm not going to send him away."

She looks down, and a waiter moves over to us. From the look on his face, he's been waiting until we stopped fighting to approach… I order us two cokes, and he moves away. When she speaks again, her voice is broken.

"Why could you… forgive him… but not me?"

I sigh, softly. "I have… forgiven you."

"…He gets to go back to being your star CSI, and I'm left on the sidelines."

"Sara…"

"No, Gil… or is it _Grissom_, here? Just… forget I said anything."

"Sara…" I try again, but apparently she didn't mean it when she said to forget her words.

"It's just that—"

"Come work in Vegas, Sara." I say, even though I had meant to ask her differently, because if I don't get it out there, she'll never stop speaking long enough for me to say it at all.

"I… what?"

My heart is hammering in my chest. "Come… work in Vegas. I… I'm short a CSI, again. I don't really have the time, with all the changes, to take applications and do interviews… You're more than qualified, and wasting your talent in San Francisco. Come… work with me."

She stares at me for so long with that deer-in-the-headlights look that I start to worry about what her answer will be. I hadn't even considered that she wouldn't accept the job offer. I feel nervous. She clears her throat. The sound actually startles me.

"On… on the graveyard shift?"

We both knew that she is asking quite a bit more than just what time of the day she'd be working. Members on a team weren't allowed to be involved… and I would be her boss. I'd already made it clear that the reason I hadn't wanted her on grave had been because of that rule. …So she knew I wouldn't ask her to work on grave if I had any intention of us having a relationship when she moved here. I was asking her to move with the full knowledge that we wouldn't be together.

I nod, slowly, and my mouth is dry. Maybe it wasn't rational, asking an ex-lover to come work with me… but I could truly think of no better addition to the team, even just in professional terms. And the idea of having her around every day was tempting as much as it was painful.

Her deep, dark, beautiful brown eyes meet mine, and I find that I've never seen them darker. They reveal nothing of her emotions—a first. Even falsely-confident Sara's eyes betrayed her more often than not. Her gaze is steady, and for the first time since we began this conversation, her hands aren't shaking. Her chin rises slowly, an act of defiance.

"Okay… I'll have to go back to Frisco… pack up my apartment, give notice… find a place here. I don't have money to move…" Her eyes narrow and she fixes me tightly in that expressionless stare, her voice turning coy and yet dangerous. "How badly does the Las Vegas Crime Lab want me?"

Another misleading question—she's asking how badly _I_ want her. I won't tell her, though… I won't reveal that it's a need so deep and pulling that it feels as though it has simply always been a part of me. "There are… resources in the lab budget to offset the financial burden of transfer for a highly-sought recruit. I can direct you to human resources tomorrow, to speak with them about it…"

She nods, and her eyes find the table, her lips twitching in disappointment.

"Great. Thanks… boss."

I wince at the title, but she seems to draw some sort of satisfaction from this—she's relieved that she isn't the only one of us hurting. I swallow hard. "You don't need to call me that. …Grissom will be fine."

Okay, I admit it; I was trying to hurt her too. I was being petty, and cold, but it was only to assuage the aching in my breast that would not subside. Her breath hitches at my words, but I pretend not to hear it. I pretend not to see the tears in her eyes, too.

And I pretend not to be surprised when she pulls a five dollar bill from her purse and drops it on the table, breathing out a "I'll let you know when I can start…" before she leaves me alone at our table.

I give her ten minutes to make a getaway, though I don't want to, because I know that if I catch her I'll apologize… admit the depth of my pain, submit to what my head denies my heart…

I leave another five on the table, both our drinks sitting cold and untouched—I hadn't even noticed the waiter set them before us. I move slowly out, to my car, and she isn't there, but I don't expect her to be.

I sleep alone that night, and though this is normal for me, I feel it more than usual… like my solitude is a weight pressing around me in the darkness of the bedroom we had made love in more times than I could count. The only bright spot—and it _isn't_, really, because it's also the reason for the weight—is that Sara will be living here now, and I'll get to see her every day.

I could do this, surely… look and not touch… be satisfied with her presence and her smile and her mere proximity… _Really_, I could. It couldn't _possibly_ drive me crazier than the distance had…

Yet even without the distance… even with her sleeping in the same city, tonight…

I feel so alone.


	64. Moving Forward

Disclaimer: I don't own, etc. etc.

A/N: So I tried very hard to proof-read this without distractions, but the DVR was begging me to rewind and rewatch this random family bowling scene, for some reason... :)

Aaaand, I was sleepy and eating knoephla soup, which are both distracting conditions to be in, you understand. :) I felt all Grissom-y.

Oh, and I know Sara's apartment is purple in Nesting Dolls, but in the end of You've Got Male it looks burgundy-ish... and I don't know if it's a different color, or just the way the lighting was, but I figured it was open to interpretation. :) ...Yeah, I'm obsessive about details. Have you noticed?

Thanks for all the reviews!

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Chapter 4: Moving Forward

I don't know how I managed to move in two weeks—I roped Greg into helping me apartment hunt the next day, because I didn't know my way around Vegas, and I was too proud to ask Gi—_Grissom_. The first day I found very little, but the second I found several in my price range. I was only looking at vacant apartments, because I would need to move in as soon as possible.

I opted for a two bedroom—it had a small kitchen but the appliances were new and stainless steel… there wasn't room for a table, but there was a breakfast bar and room for bar stools, and it had one and half baths… the rent was decent, the neighborhood was good, and even though it was a little small, it was nice. Everything was high-quality. I would be a little cramped in favor of an apartment that wouldn't fall apart on me.

I took myself to human resources to determine what kind of help I could get for moving—they would pay for a moving vehicle. That was it. …Not a lot of help, considering how costly moving could be, but I would take what I could get. Gi-Grissom had scheduled me a return flight—on the lab's tab, I imagined—and I returned to Frisco to pack up my things and give notice… It was halfway through the month, so I would end up paying an extra month's rent, which wasn't helpful. I was just lucky I had money in savings…

The drive from Frisco to Vegas was long, and I was already exhausted from packing. I had been tired, driving from Boston to Berkeley, but I had been running away from something I feared, then… now I was running _to_ something I feared. It was a lot harder.

I talked Greg into helping me arrange furniture—helping me put together my beds and move my bookshelf, desk, dressers, and couch… the rest I did by myself. I painted the day before furniture arrived—a deep burgundy—because it helped me believe it was a home… a place I had chosen because I loved it, rather than because it was the best I could find on such short notice.

I called Kelly, and told her I'd moved—she was shocked, of course, not least of all because I had moved to Vegas but not into Gil—Grissom's townhouse. It was hard to remember the name change when she kept using his first name. She said they'd come visit me soon, and see the apartment, but I knew that was unlikely. It was the end of August and school had just started… she wouldn't have time off until the holidays, and Eric usually worked through Christmas break. Chances were they wouldn't come until spring break or next summer…

That was okay, though. It gave me something to look forward to…

A few days before I officially started on the night shift, I made my way into Gi—Grissom's office, to fill out necessary paperwork. I put on the old smile and the airy indifference, pretending we'd never fought… and as he always did, he took my lead and followed suit. Sometimes I was grateful for that, but more often I wished he wouldn't let me pretend things were okay when they weren't.

I had never wanted that from anyone else, ever.

I filled out the paperwork on his desk, though I'm sure he expected me to take it to the break room. It must have made him uncomfortable, because he began speaking to fill the silence.

"I could show you around the lab… introduce you to people…"

"I pretty much figured it all out, my first day…"

"I could help you find your locker..." There's the hint of a double entendre in his voice. He's trying to make the atmosphere playful, to ease the tension. I mimic it, but not in the way he wants me to.

"Greg already showed me." I wink and turn back to my tax information.

"…Oh. Right. Greg… he, uh… you two are close?"

I shrug, my discomfort well-hidden beneath my mask this time—I used to struggle with it, with Gi—Grissom, but now it slipped into place as easily as it had in each new foster home. "Yeah, I guess. Just nice to have a friend in town… he helped me move in."

"Oh. I, uh… I could have… helped."

I smile again, and give him a curious glance. "That would have been nice…"

He nods, uncertainly. "Yeah. …Did… did Greg offer, or… did you ask him?"

"I asked him."

"…Oh. You… could have asked me."

He sounds genuinely hurt, and I waver… my eyes soften and the mask slips, just a little. "I, uh… I didn't know if… after the fight, Gi… Grissom…"

He looks down at his desk. "You can call me Gil, Sara."

I know it takes a lot for him to say this, and my mask falls away completely. My eyes crinkle and I reach a hand over to rest over his, on the desk. "I, um… I need someone to give a key to… in case I ever lock myself out. It… it won't do me a lot of good to have my spare in the apartment. …Would you… can I ask you to… take it… for me?"

He looks up and meets my gaze, and for a moment our pain is mirrored in each others' eyes. I want to climb over his desk and his paperwork and his specimen jars and kiss him into delirium, until there is no more hurt left between us, only love. He nods, and I pull my hand and eyes from his to snatch my purse from the floor and take the spare key from the key ring and hand it across the desk to him. Our fingers brush as he takes it from me, and I tremble so badly from the contact that I have to squeeze my hands into fists to stop it.

"Thank you."

"…You didn't give… Greg… a spare too?" For a moment I'm tempted to tease him, just to return the false but playful banter… but he's revealed too much vulnerability in the question for that kind of insensitivity. I shake my head slowly.

"Greg is a… good friend, but..."

He nods. He doesn't need me to say it.

We sit in silence for a moment, and reluctantly I turn to my paperwork. After handing him another sheet, he speaks again.

"I, uh… told the team you'd be starting. They already knew… probably from—"

"Greg. Yeah, I figured he'd shoot his mouth off… What, uh… what did they say?"

The left corner of his mouth turns up. "Nicky said it made sense… we didn't need a rookie, right now, with everything that was going on… and you were clearly qualified."

I nod, slowly, and ask "Catherine?" because I'm avoiding asking about Warrick, which is inevitable.

He grins then. "She's… hard to read, sometimes. I think she liked you a lot, but is still… I don't know, threatened, maybe, by the idea of another woman on the team."

I smile. "Yeah, I got that… territorial… vibe from her."

Another moment of silence, because we're both avoiding the reason he brought up the subject at all, but he gives in first.

"Warrick seemed happy too… said we needed the help, and it would be nice to have a team of all level 3's…"

"He got promoted, then?"

He nods. "He will be. There was a B&E earlier in the week… pretty straight-forward. It was the man's ex-wife, disgruntled about the terms of the divorce…" I nod and refuse to look up. "Sara…"

"No, it's… none of my business. I'll just remember that gambling on company time is behavior that, while frowned upon when it results in the death of a CSI, is perfectly acceptable here. I mean, it's Vegas, right?"

"Sara, I talked to him about the gambling. It isn't going to happen again."

I hand him the last few pages of completed paperwork.

"Okay, I think I'm all set here. See you in a couple nights, Grissom." I wave cheerily and move from his office as if it doesn't bother me, and we both know it does.

I don't miss the flash of hurt across his face that I'm sticking to his request that I use his last name, the way the others do, despite him more or less taking it back. But I don't feel guilty, or sorry. I'm glad that it hurts him as much as it hurts me… and if for only that reason, I keep it up. _Gil_ had been my lover, and my friend, and the kindest, gentlest, sweetest man I'd ever known… _Grissom_ was my boss. Grissom was stoic and cold and hurtful. Grissom was an _ass_.

…and yet, I loved Grissom too.


	65. The First Night

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So, I'm very sorry I didn't update for so long, my lovely readers...

The boyfriend proposed Friday night, so it was a busy weekend of snuggling and calling every family member and friend conceivable. :)

Hopefully I'll be back to roughly every day again. Let me know what you think!

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Chapter 5: The First Night

When Sara came in the first night, I discovered that I had learned to mimic her false bravado. Mine was certainly much more understated… much subtler, but it was there. I walked into the break room—Nick and Warrick were on the couch, showing clear signs of having just turned off their video game when they saw me heading down the hallway. Catherine and Sara sat at the table, coffee cups held in tensed hands. I grinned—I had a feeling that their friendship might always be tenuous.

Fortunately, we had an apparent kidnapping we'd just been contacted about, so there was little room for pleasantries or awkward moments. For this I was very grateful, although I'd been mentally preparing myself for interacting with Sara in front of the team ever since I'd asked her to join the team. I took her and Nick with me—I wanted Sara with me partly for selfish reasons and partly because I'd never actually seen her process a real scene, and I felt, as supervisor, I should make sure she knew and followed protocol. I figured, at least the first night, I shouldn't pair Warrick and Sara… so I took Nick, and gave Warrick and Catherine a hit and run.

I could tell simply by Sara's expression that she wanted the ransom note audio… but I did, truly, want to watch her process a scene… see how she played it out in her head. So I gave Nick the audio—I wasn't certain how he'd do with it, because he hadn't done a lot of audio in the past, but then, I didn't have any idea how Sara would do either…

Once at the scene, I immediately go to talk to the husband, who is understandably upset, direct Nick about what to do with the audio, and then make my way into the bedroom, where Sara is. Ever eager to impress me where forensics is concerned, she launches into her theory of how the crime had taken place.

"Cursory call… Looks like a professional job. Our guy bypasses the security system, surprises the wife in the back hall… drags her in here, she grabs onto the doorway—sign of struggle—no sign of sexual assault. He's in, they're out…" What was that on the carpet…? I bend down to inspect it, only half hearing the end of her evaluation of the scene. "Probably… egress through those doors."

The house was otherwise spotless… maybe the kidnapper had brought the dirt in on his shoes. Her voice cuts through my thoughts again, a little harder than normal, but still teasing. "Excuse me, is my evaluation interrupting you?"

I feign a lack of awareness—I had been momentarily distracted, but being unaware of Sara was something I found nearly impossible. "Huh? No, no, no… I barely heard you." I wondered vaguely if there was dirt outside… maybe it had nothing to do with the kidnapper. What kind of yard had they had…?

"…Glad I have a healthy ego. You find something interesting there?" Her voice is falsely-confident-Sara's. Slightly arrogant, slightly mocking… as if disdain could save her from the world's prying eyes and unfair judgments… and, perhaps, my feigned indifference.

"Dirt."

"You're so technical…I can hardly keep up, but...." I raise my eyebrows. Was she teasing again or actually upset I wasn't explaining the dirt I'd found in depth?

"Well, sorry, but, uh… Out of context, it's… just dirt." We need to see the backyard. Didn't she say the kidnapped had taken Mrs. Garris out that way…? I rise and move out the doors, vaguely aware of distant sirens. She follows me—a part of me knew she would—and I pause at the edge of the concrete, taking a cursory glance around the area. There's a curious smell—sickly sweet—in the air.

"Did you just slap on bad cologne?" I smile softly—she noticed too. I feel overwhelmed with pride—she had been my protégée as well as my lover during those first weeks of our relationship, during the conference in San Francisco. I couldn't help being excited at her success… her cleverness. But, of course, I could voice none of this.

"I never wear it; it interferes with the job." It's probably Halothane…

"It's almost sweet…" Ah, and there it was—the cloth emitting the smell. Not typical of a professional kidnapping…

"Hmm." I pick it up with forceps, smelling it and then turning and offering it to Sara—she sniffs it readily, without a hint of hesitation. It had taken me weeks to get Nick and Warrick comfortable using the less-obvious senses of smell and taste. You couldn't process a scene with eyes and ears alone.

"Can't be chloroform."

"Halothane, maybe." Most likely.

"We'll confirm it in GC mass spec." She pulls out an evidence bag and I slip the rag inside.

"'Looks like a professional job,' I think you said…?" I glance at her, my eyes playful. I know how hard it is for her to be wrong, even in very early speculation. She tilts her head back up to look me in the face, her eyes and mouth—which is, surprisingly, often as expressive as her eyes—reacting half playfully and half indignantly.

"Care to amend your evaluation?" She smirks now and nods as I continue with what she already knows, "I mean, if the guy leaves the rag he used to knock her out, he can't be much of a pro."

"I… keep trying to be your star pupil." And that was true—from day one, she'd wanted to live up to my expectations and exceed them, especially where forensics was concerned, but it was not limited to that.

"Sara, that was a seminar, this is real." The smile on her face doesn't move, but sticks strangely, and she looks down. I mentally kick myself—of course she would take that comment as a criticism, but I hadn't meant it that way… She'd been a CSI for how long now without me to check up her; she obviously knows this is real. I change the subject quickly.

"Pebbles, tile… the front is all concrete."

"No dirt. Context—there is dirt on the carpeting inside."

"In an otherwise spotless house…"

"You're saying… kidnapper dragged the dirt in."

"Possible. As of now that's about all we have so… I guess we follow the dirt."

It was a very long night after that. The husband—Mr. Garris–decided he wanted to give up his only bargaining chip to get his wife back—the ransom money—and so Brass followed him and the money, hoping the kidnapper would take the money and they could catch the guy. So far he'd been sloppy—leaving the rag behind—so there was every possibility that he'd mess up again.

In the mean time, I take the dirt back to the lab, catching Nick and sending him to meet up with Brass while the audio lab worked on the tape. There are traces of gold and cyanide in the sample—so I immediately find a map of the surrounding area, looking for gold mines near power lines—there had been a buzzing on the tape—that were close to where the kidnapper had wanted the ransom money left. There are only three.

Sara comes in, in that moment, and never one to miss an opportunity to teach, I immediately begin my explanation, guiding her from microscope to map and through the deductive reasoning process, explaining how a case with a dead miner years before had taught me that miners used powered cyanide to draw gold to the surface. When I told her that the man had died simply by passing out on the ground and the cyanide leaching into his system, her eyes seemed… disturbed and amused, all at once.

"Gruesome, Grissom." I looked away at the use of my last name, which still hurt me though I had brought it on myself.

"You know, it's funny, but every case teaches me something about the next…" I say, trying to make up for my comment at the crime scene in which I'd implied she hadn't known the difference between a mock scene and reality… trying to tell her, in not so many words, that she was a great CSI and could only get better…

I'm not entirely sure she got it, but her eyes seemed lighter, after that.

We followed the dirt—calling for a helicopter to take us around and look for body heat around the three mines we had located on the map. Maybe we could find where Mrs. Garris was being kept. We were forced into a close proximity in the helicopter—I could smell her hair, and her skin, and the hardly-scented mousse she used to control her halo of curls. I focus instead on what we're seeing, explaining everything from coyotes to how many legs they have, as if she would assume a heat-sensor would only recognize two-legged beings.

And then, swinging around the mine again, we see her—clearly bound and struggling, and… underground.

"My god, she's below the surface…"

I hear Sara yelling in my ear—taking charge because I apparently have forgotten how. "Okay, let's land! Take her down! Down!"

We land and rush out, screaming over the sound of the helicopter blades, desperately hoping that she'll hear us… and she does. There's screaming a moment later and we dig frantically, until the ground team arrives and a large wooden crate is unearthed. Taking a pick, I pry open the crate and see the poor woman lying in a dirty hole in the ground, left to die.

"Oh my god." I hear Sara murmur beside me as probably ten hands reach in to pull the woman out. I cut the duct tape from her wrists and try to reassure her as best I can before sending her off to the paramedics.

It's at this point that I look back to Sara. She is looking down, her hair flying chaotically around her face from the helicopter and the desert winds and the turmoil of the moment. I watch her glance back at the woman, a strange, pained look on her face.

I can't help it—I don't even think before my hand moves to her face, cupping her cheek the way I have every time I have seen that look cross her face. "You okay?" She looks startled, but she doesn't pull away. Her eyes are hollow as she sighs, shaking her head.

"It never ceases to amaze me what people do to each other."

She moves away from me, giving directions about transporting the crate back to the lab, but the emptiness stays with me, lingering in her wake. I knew Sara was very… empathetic towards victims, but she had never in the past showed me how personally their plights affected her.

Although, burying someone in a box in a desert, alive, was definitely one of the worst ways to go… one of the cruelest forms of death to inflict upon another person. Hell, even I was more affected by this than normal… and she was a fairly new CSI.

I'm sure that's all it was. …I _hoped_ that was all it was. I didn't want Sara to burn out… and I didn't want to ever see that emptiness in the chocolate depths of her eyes again.


	66. Joining the Team

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So, first things first... I had, in the Chapter 'Moving Forward' had Grissom make Warrick a CSI 3, because I was pretty sure the show didn't cover it... and when watching 104 today to write the upcoming chapters, I realized I was wrong. Sooo, I edited a small section of that chapter. It used to say:

_"Warrick seemed happy too… said we needed the help, and it would be nice to have a team of all level 3's…"_

_"He got promoted, then?"_

_He nods. "There was a B&E earlier in the week…" etc..._

And now it says:

_"Warrick seemed happy too… said we needed the help, and it would be nice to have a team of all level 3's…"_

_"He got promoted, then?"_

_He nods. "He will be. There was a B&E earlier in the week..."_

Anyway... I'm sorry for that. I usually check and double-check details, but I'm still trying to post daily, so it's getting harder. I'll try to avoid more mistakes, but feel free to point them out when I make them--I appreciate it.

Also, I want to thank everyone who congratulated me! We're very excited, and it meant a lot!

...Whew! Okay, here's the next chapter. Let me know what you think. Also, I'm thinking about trying to do less, in the upcoming chapters that overlap episodes, because I feel like I'm mostly summarizing them, but I don't want to miss those moments either... so tell me if you like me covering the episodes, dislike it, think I should do it less or more... feedback is appreciated. :) Hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 6: Joining the Team

The weird thing I learned about working the graveyard shift was that you rarely worked only your normal shift… because the rest of the world slept at night. This is why I found myself, exhausted and pounding coffee like nobody's business, stalking into the crime lab just before noon the next day. It was going to be hard enough to adjust to sleeping days, without the extra obligations…

I head toward the break room, catching sight of G-_Grissom_ as he practically bounces into the room ahead of me. …I haven't seen him looking so happy since… our first three weeks together. I enter a second later, catching the end of his enthusiasm—Catherine's daughter's birthday was today, and Grissom had gotten her a present that he was clearly very excited about.

"…What's the rule? How long do I have to be here before I start kicking in for gifts?" I joke, mostly to cover the fact that I feel bad for not getting Lindsey anything, even though no one had told me there was apparently a party for her. Then again, maybe I wasn't invited…

"When the spirit moves you Sara, so, I guess, in your case, never." She said back—and though her tone is slightly teasing… it's also biting. I raise an eyebrow and look down, drinking deeply from my coffee cup. Catherine was so hard to read… sometimes she would be the exact type of woman I disliked—the grown-up version of the girls I'd hated in high school—and other times she was funny, quirky, and even rather friendly.

But then, the girls I'd disliked in high school had also been able to be quite likable when they put their minds to it. …I was, thus far, undecided about her.

G-Grissom, however, continues the conversation, wrapped up in his present of choice. "I got one of these chem. labs when I was six… I almost blew up the whole house!" He laughs a little boy's laugh, and I wonder why I didn't know that about him… did I know anything about him that dated back past…Vegas… other than which geographic location he had existed in and in which order…?

"I, uh… hope you can return it, 'cause, ah… Lindsey doesn't want a party."

"Yeah, what kid doesn't want a party?" Had he wanted a party, as a little kid? Did he get his chem. lab as a sixth birthday present?

"My kid." Catherine says, too sharply. Maybe her animosity today wasn't directed at me in particular…

Nick sweeps into the room at that moment, "Hey Catherine, what time is your little girl coming by?"

"She isn't."

"Yeah, but I got her a chem. set…"

G-Grissom and Nick exchange glances at each others' presents, and I grin at Nick. He's probably the only member of Grissom's team that I _know_ I like. I sense that there will be moments in which we don't exactly see the world in the same light—his Texas accent and Mama's boy appearance tell me that much… but still, he's a nice guy.

"You keep that, you might learn something."

"Stop flirting with me." He fires back, a smirk trying to hide on his face. "Cath, really, when's the party?"

"What do I have to do, put it on the bulletin board?! There is no party. My daughter doesn't want a party."

My eyebrows rise again, but a myriad of beepers go off to save us from Catherine's wrath—and we all head off in different directions.

I went to process the crate she'd been buried in—I got a few good prints, but that wasn't what stood out to me… the box was from the Garris Winery… which meant that… what? Either Mrs. Garris was abducted by someone who not only knew the layout of the house and her husband's schedule, but also had access to his winery storage… or the kidnapper had received a lot of help.

The man Brass had arrested last night for pulling the money from the drop spot had been Mr. Garris' personal trainer, so he would know layout and possibly schedule… I brought the prints to the print lab to run against the suspect… yet it still seemed suspicious.

The prints were a match, but I still listened to Brass interview the man—his excuse for the presence of his fingerprints was having helped Mr. Garris move crates to his garage. …I wasn't ready to rule him out as a suspect, but if this was true… and the crate had come from the garage… it would have been harder to get a hold of, probably. The kidnapper, again, would need help…

I went to our suspect's truck, which had been impounded the previous night, and moved immediately to the passenger seat, finding long brown hairs trapped in the upholstery of the seat and practically running to compare them to the hair Grissom had pulled from the duct tape and I myself had found in the crate. Without skin tags, the comparison needed to be done on a microscopic level… Usually a trace technician would run it for me, but… well, in truth, I wasn't certain who did trace in the lab… there seemed to be a tragic shortage of lab rats here, and I was perfectly capable of doing it myself…

And while I was there, it certainly couldn't hurt to check what trace evidence was on the clothing Grissom had retrieved from the hospital… the clothing she'd been buried in. There was sheep skin fiber—matching his upholstery—on the back of her sleeves.

I find G-Grissom in the audio lab, and ask him to come out and confirm my theory—because I know, I just _know_, I have information that will break the case wide open. …I _want_ to be the one to do it, because I know I can gain his approval in this way, despite lacking it in our personal relations…and there's still a part of me that wants to be his best student, regardless of what we had shared on an intimate level…

The hairs were a match… the sheep skin was on her sleeves… this meant that...

Mrs. Garris had been in the passenger seat… not only in the seat, but sitting upright, and unbound. She hadn't been kidnapped at all… she had helped someone, probably our suspect, fake a kidnapping and… he had turned on her.

…I wait by the car, clinging to a roll of duct tape, for what seems like an inordinate amount of time, but which is probably only five minutes—and then hear his voice from the hallway. He's walking with Catherine.

"Yes, I'm her mother," Catherine says, "She mimics me." I step back as they're passing the door to the garage I'm in, listening intently.

"Then she'll be fine. I mean… _look at you_." G-Grissom says, his voice just a little deeper, and familiar… it wasn't quite the tone he'd used when intimate with me but… closer to that than anything I'd previously heard him utter in the lab. I swallow hard.

_Eff-ing blondes. _

I take a deep breath and step out into the hallway behind them, holding up the duct tape.

"Hey Grissom!" He turns, and I grin. "Could you come tape me up?" And I slip back into to room, catching only the beginning of the surprised look on his face. I know it was… a little bold, for the lab, but… I wasn't about to let the Barbies of the world take over because I wasn't filling to fight for my little corner of it.

He enters the room not thirty seconds later, a silly smile on his face… and I hand him the tape, moving to sit on the passenger seat of the truck. He leans in closer, almost standing between my knees, to tape my wrists the way Mrs. Garris' had been, and we both smile sort of awkwardly—too happily for the situation—at the proximity. …I wonder vaguely if this whole bondage thing is a fetish I'd never known about. He seems to be enjoying it… a lot.

"So, you found Laura's hairs…here, passenger side, front seat."

"Right. Not in the back… which made me ask, 'What kind of a kidnapper puts a woman bound and unconscious in the front seat?' The back of my arm isn't touching the sheep skin, see?"

"Yeah. So?"

"But… there is sheep skin fiber on the back of Laura's sleeve. That tells us Laura sat back, like a normal person would. Cut me, Mack." I extend my arms and he cuts the tape with a smirk, so I can demonstrate.

"Like this." I move my arms back against the seat. His head is tilted, his eyes thoughtful.

"So… she wasn't bound at all?"

"Correct. But… Would a kidnapper risk putting an unconscious woman in the front seat of his car, even unbound? The answer is usually in the question, you taught me that, so… Was she unconscious? We found Halothane on the patio, Halothane knocks you out… if you take it." I say, waiting and watching for his reaction. He doesn't seem as surprised as I expected… and he's smiling, strangely.

"So, you're saying that she never inhaled the Halothane?"

"Proof would be in her blood. Halothane stays in the system up to forty-eight hours…" I say, trying to impress him with my extensive knowledge and plan to solve the case… to catch the woman, despite the unexpected twist the straight-forward kidnapping had taken.

"How pleased am I that I got a sample of her blood?" He asks, a too-knowing smirk on his face. I scoff, closing my eyes and letting my head fall forward—he had known, or… suspected, at least. "So you can go check at the lab, see how it turned out…"

"Damn it." I stand, closing the distance between us, "I wanted to carry the ball over the line…"

He looks down so that our faces aren't in such direct proximity, but grins, and nods, "I know…" He doesn't trust himself, with me so close.

I move away, out of the room, trying not to be too upset that I hadn't truly given him any insight he was lacking… I would keep trying, though. Someday, I would catch something he hadn't…

I got the results back just minutes after Grissom returned from his lunch break, looking like he'd taken a shower and changed clothes… something that sounded amazing, just now, but would have to wait, now that the tox results had come in.

I open his door, but he doesn't notice—he's listening to something on a portable CD player. I grin. "Grateful dead CD?"

He looks startled and pulls the headphones off one of his ears. "Who's dead?"

I shake my head, and tell him there's no halothane is Laura Garris' blood… which means that she and Chip had faked her kidnapping… which didn't make any sense at all, because Laura Garris had access to the money all along… and even if she wanted to avoid the hassle of divorce, she had ended up buried alive and black and blue…

Grissom gives a cryptic explanation—"Greed"—and we leave to go talk to Mrs. Garris… well, talk to her… arrest her… you know, whichever.

To my surprise, Gi-Grissom lets me lead, for the most part… spelling out what we know and how we know it… proving to the poor, unsuspecting, clearly lovesick husband that his cheating tramp of a wife cared so little about him that she didn't have the decency to leave him via divorce—upfront and honestly—even knowing she would probably take half of his money that way anyway.

Grissom steps in, when she makes a snide comment with too much eyebrow movement—a sure sign someone's lying… and being a bitch. _God_, I didn't like this woman. I couldn't believe I'd been so upset over her burial, which was cruel, but now, I knew, not entirely undeserved. What was that saying… No heroes amongst thieves?

I watch her being taken into a police car after rubbing her infidelity in her husband's disbelieving face, and had a sense of a sort of divine retribution in the universe. She had been made a true victim because she pretended to be a real one… and when the altruists of the world saved her, and pitied her… truth won the day, and she was be punished.

I stood as close to Gi—Grissom as I felt he would allow without pulling away or giving me a strange look, and drew in a deep breath. It felt good to believe, just this once, that the world was a just place, after all.


	67. Fantasy

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So, chances are this is the last chapter I'll have up until Friday night-ish. I'm gonna try to get one up tonight, but if I don't, then it will be Friday... :)

Sooo, in the mean time, enjoy, and if I don't get another one up... Happy Thanksgiving!

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Chapter 7: Fantasy

I couldn't say that working with Sara became routine… I got used to seeing her every night, in the lab, in the break room, in the garages… but even without proximity, she unsettled me. I felt like, prior to Sara being constantly present, I had viewed the world through sleepy, half-closed eyes, my mind clouded.

Of course, this wasn't true… but now everything seemed brighter, sharper, more defined. This wasn't necessarily a good thing—I found that when the occasional migraine gripped me, the symptoms were harder to deal with—even the most minimal sound or light seemed to penetrate me.

I figured it was best to keep her off of cases with Warrick, for a while at least… until things had cooled down. Yet she and Catherine seemed to be on edge with each other too… though it wasn't a constant thing, like Sara's friendly but somewhat distant treatment of Warrick. I was never certain, on a given day, how the women would react to each other.

This meant that she worked a lot of cases with me and Nick and on her own… which bothered Nick and Warrick, I could just tell. The working alone part… to work solo on a serious case, like a rape or a murder, obviously implied a lot of trust on the part of the person handing out assignments… _me_. I had the excuse, of course, that she'd been a level 3 for much longer… but I never had to use it, because neither brought their concerns to me.

Still though, she and Nick seemed to have found an easy camaraderie, which wasn't entirely surprising. Despite Sara's somewhat-hippie-like ways—she had grown up in California, after all—and the clash you would expect them to have with Nick's traditional upbringing—Texas, born and raised—they were both quite kind-hearted, empathetic, and devoted to the job and justice… and they were young. They would probably have a lot in common. They playfully bantered about that which they didn't agree on, and were otherwise very…compatible.

Compatible, and flirtatious. …I had viewed Sara's flirtations, when directed at me, as exciting and alluring… when they became her coping mechanism and mask, I found it almost calming, and certainly endearing… watching them directed at Nick… and at Greg… well, I didn't like them so much anymore.

If it were anything less than one of the most basic aspects of her personality, at least in social situations, I could have been mad at her for it. …But, of course, I wasn't. In truth, there were a lot of things I realized I now found maddeningly infuriating about the woman, yet I couldn't bring myself to hold them against her.

The way she raised just one eyebrow and the sly look in her eye when she made offhanded comments about sex, especially in reference to a case… which was surprisingly often.

The way she puckered her lips just slightly—almost a twitch—when she was amused… or challenging someone playfully.

The way her eyes darted around a scene the minute she entered, as if she could not focus on one thing or even allow herself a slow sweep…

The way she drank her coffee—with so much sugar you wondered why she drank coffee at all—as if it were the only thing keeping her going.

The way she could remember details read as well or better than myself, and did not hesitate to prove it… much to the chagrin of the others on the team.

The way she smiled differently at Greg—not even romantically, which was a relief to me, but as if he provided her with something that no one else could. Not even me.

The way she could quote things I'd said over a year previous as if it had only been seconds, citing me in casual conversation the way I referenced great thinkers…

Needless to say, I spent as much of my day analyzing the things she had said and done—each insignificant movement and smile and quirk—as I spent on my caseloads… which, I determined, was not altogether a good thing. I should not be replaying that day in the garage, imagining taking Sara there on the truck seat, her hands taped to the handle above the inside of the door, each of us struggling to keep quiet to avoid the prying ears of everyone else in the lab, just through a doorway…

Of course, this isn't something I would ever do… but that was the point of fantasy, right?

Because the more I thought about her, the more I realized that she _was_ my fantasy… brown curls that danced with flecks of red and even gold, deep, chocolate brown eyes that never failed to pierce through me, a slender body that made me feel more masculine, because I was not a large nor impressive man myself yet she was small and lithe when pressed against me, and which enthralled me more than any other woman's had… a brain that challenged me to no end, and a heart which far surpassed me on a daily basis, and a laugh that made me feel as though I had never suffered a day in my life… a laugh that, when sincere, made me certain there was a God, despite every doubt I'd ever had my whole life long.

But fantasies could be dangerous.

Especially if they were of the forbidden variety.

Good. _Great._ I'm glad I thought of it that way…

Now Sara is _forbidden fruit_.

Wonderful.

…I had never been a man with a particularly insatiable sexual appetite, and yet I found myself requiring an extra few minutes in the shower on a daily basis, simply to keep myself sane and my mind focused on anything but her.

…Maybe I shouldn't have asked Sara to come to Vegas. I truly loved seeing her every day, learning her expressions and the nuances of her movements that I hadn't noticed before now… but I was certainly no closer to getting over her. In fact, I fell a little further for her every day, and yet… there were now more reasons why I couldn't have her.

And that was probably good. I wasn't certain if I could stay away, long-term, with her there every day, just by my own will power…

There's a reason why fantasies are not reality. You don't ever really get hurt in a fantasy. Reality with Sara Sidle, I had learned all too well, was painful.


	68. Geek vs Greek

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: I hope everyone had a wonderful thanksgiving! :) Here's the next chapter. This is more like the non-summarizing version of episodes I was thinking about... Let me know whether you like this better or going through each case better. I think this is more dynamic, but it'll get hard to do in the episodes full of GSR moments... I'm thinking I'll probably go back and forth between the two types, but I'd still like your opinions.

Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 8: Geek vs. Greek

I liked Nick a lot. …Even if he called me out for flirting with him, in front of Grissom… even if his beautiful body displayed in the locker room only served to remind me that I really couldn't look at another man even in mere lust, because they could never live up to Grissom… even if he had been in a fraternity.

And he took my side. He had my back—that was nice to have from someone who wasn't Kelly or… getting some. …Life was bleak if that was why I appreciated someone taking my side—it was nice, because I didn't have to put out to expect it…

Regardless, he was growing on me. Greg and I had caught breakfast about once a week since I started… and maybe today I would invite Nick. He and Greg seemed to get along, after all, and Greg had started flirting again… not the harmless hitting-on-anything-female type flirting, or even the I-vividly-remember-how-you-sound-when-you-climax flirting… this was a little more direct, and seemed like he wanted it to go somewhere. If Nick came along, I could keep up what was quickly becoming a welcome tradition without worrying that Greg would misinterpret eggs and bacon for a breakfast date.

…This was strange behavior, for me. The weekly breakfasts and the extending invitations… Greg was kind of awkward and anti-social too, so I hadn't questioned the breakfasts… but the invitation? I suppose it makes sense though, when you look at the big picture. Well, I'm sure Nick has a hundred stories that begin this way—_none of which I care to hear_—but… It all started in a frat house.

A freshman had hung himself, apparently after being denied admittance into the "brotherhood." But it seemed… off. He hadn't left a suicide note, for one. …For another, pledging a fraternity or sorority was generally a… social activity. When people were depressed—enough to kill themselves—they were far more likely to retreat inward than attempt to reach out to strangers.

…It wasn't evidence, just… intuition.

At some point, I told myself, as Nick attempted to use his former Greek experience to get our suspects to open up, I would have to ask Nick whether he really believed all that brotherhood and family crap he was feeding them. …But I was sure he did.

I didn't trust the two "brothers" we were talking to—Matt and Kyle. They were too… flippant. Not upset enough about the idea of a body hanging from their ceiling… that would freak most people out, you know? And they kept giving what I referred to, in my head, as 'guilty answers.' The type of answers people think CSIs want to hear, but not the answers one gives when innocent…

"Was James depressed?" Nick asks, and I watch the faces of the boys. They don't waver or hesitate… they don't even think about the question. They give the affirmative answer that's expected.

"You could say that." …Like I said, flippant.

"_Could_ you say that?" I counter, "I mean, the kid is eighteen years old, he's got his whole life in front of him… Why would he want to hang himself?"

"I don't know… he didn't get in?" He says this as if it's obvious… there's a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Get in?"

"The fraternity…" Incredulous at my question. I nod and look at the ceiling, my mouth actually open in surprise… incredulous myself that they believed that was a good reason to commit suicide. "Pledging, I mean… It's not easy."

"Apparently not." I snap.

Nick breaks in, steering the conversation away from my obvious dislike for the boys and for fraternities in general. "So… you guys let him know he wasn't getting in, right?" I glance at him, wondering if he's about to side with the Greeks over the geeks… waiting for the betrayal that seems imminent, though not unexpected.

"Yeah, I told him last night," speaks boy-on-the-stairs, who had hitherto remained quiet. "I'm the one responsible for dinging pledges."

"Big job?" I fight to reign myself in, not wanting Nick to be right if he pulls the emotional-detachment card. I can't help the sarcasm dripping from my voice, however. Everything about these two screams _guilty_. He just smiles back at me cockily. My voice is, at least, a little calmer when I speak again. "How'd he take it?"

"I think you know," comes the first boy's unapologetic response. My mouth opens in indignation and I look to the side again, because if I keep my eyes on his arrogant, self-satisfied, remorseless expression I will certainly lose my temper. …I just wanted to backhand the pair of them.

Of course, I didn't. I let Nick direct us out and back to the lab, to log in and begin to process evidence and photos, until ready for the autopsy… which, of course, sent us right back to guilty frat guy one and guilty frat guy two. There was ink on our dead pledge's genitals… and the Greeks were known for hazing.

After first lying and saying they didn't haze, they explained that they _did_ have an 'initiation process.' Pledges had to accumulate points by having the girls on sorority row sign different body parts, from limbs at five points to genitals at one hundred.

They didn't say penis though. They said Johnson. I couldn't believe they had called it that. …My incredulous question of "Your _johnson_?" was followed by Nick attempting to explain that Johnson means penis.

_Yes_, I was aware, _thank you_.

So they tell us that they caught him in the bathroom signing himself and told the group before subjecting him to a beer shower. Even if they hadn't killed them, I desperately want to lock them up now. And I make my feelings on that abundantly clear, despite being rather uncertain which side of the fence Mr. Stokes is on.

"You _humiliate_ him, in front of all the other actives—kid was so _scared_ he had to sign _himself_—you give him a _beer shower_… and you don't call _that_ hazing?"

They look uncomfortable under my scrutiny, and cast furtive glances at Nick, who had thus far made a point of stressing his frat days in what I hoped was simply an effort to make them feel comfortable and trusting so they'd open up to us… and I glance at him too, because now is the moment.

He realizes that all eyes have turned to him, and his face hardens without hesitation, his voice coming out even harder. "Answer the question, guys."

My face relaxes. Geeks beat the Greeks.

I think that's why, despite the revelations about the man that unfurled throughout the case, I invited Nick to breakfast.

And believe me, there were several alarming revelations, including the phrase "Humiliation, Initiation, Appreciation," the small detail that he'd kept a trout in his pants pocket for a week—I still wasn't sure if this were something dirty or just strange—and his knowledge of the secret, Greek meanings behind our DB's penis triangles—"She's a delt."

_Right. _

But we nailed them—thanks in great part to Nick suggesting we look for signs they'd performed the Heimlich Maneuver when he'd swallowed raw liver, and Nick finding the string they'd used to dangle it down his throat, and Nick convincing Matt to roll over on Kyle, who had killed James because his girlfriend had signed James' penis, with his talk of brotherhood and saving the house.

So finding myself seated across from the Texan, at Frank's diner, across from the lab, with men in uniform in the booths all around us, wasn't as strange as it should have been. Greg stole a bite of my omelet, Nick snatched a piece of my bacon, and I tried very hard to glare angrily at my _geek_ friends… but I failed, a begrudging smile breaking my lips, which only served to encourage them.

But, really… that wasn't so bad.


	69. People Stuff

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update... :( I think, every few weeks, I just need a day to read and day dream deeper into the story, to refocus myself. I had such a hard time writing before the time off.

Unfortunately for you lovely readers, we're heading out of town for my nephew/godson's baptism on Thursday, so there won't be any updates from Thursday afternoon through Sunday. I'm sorry about that, especially because of my few days of not updating. :) I'll try to get in as many as I have time for between now and then.

Hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 9: People Stuff

I would have liked to say that, with Catherine's folly, I could claim that I had been right all along and leave the case behind me. Of course, this wasn't possible. Even if the young woman's death had been accidental, the case had gotten under my skin in a way that most didn't. Maybe it wasn't even the case, but the people-stuff that came up in the midst of it. Not to mention it felt like my emotions were so much closer to the surface with Sara constantly around. I felt a little out of control, truth be told.

The worst of the people-stuff, I suppose, had been concerning Warrick and his stint in 'purgatory.' I had found him in the evidence locker, when he should have been in court—apparently there'd been a continuance he hadn't been told about. I had watched him in a moment of silent pride; he'd been working his ass off ever since Holly had died, to make it up to me and the rest of the team. And I told him so—and that I'd made him a level three, although it was bit belated.

He was so happy… there was a glint in his eyes that was brief, but reminded me of the way Nicky often looked at me… and then he'd caught me in the hallway, and a conversation I had certainly not been ready for had commenced in my office.

"Griss… that night, with Holly… I told you that I'd gone to lay a bet. …What I didn't tell you was… I was laying it for Judge Cohen. It was his price for the warrant I'd asked him for."

I remain quiet, my lips pursed, mind leaping several steps ahead of his story, a dim sort of understanding beginning to form as the young man before me runs his hands through his hair, pacing the floor of my office, unable to meet my eyes.

He, too, reminded me of Amber… how she'd avoided my gaze when she'd done something she knew would get her in trouble. That was perhaps the first moment in which I realized that Warrick _did_ look at me the same way Nick did, he was just… more guarded, less trusting. He didn't let it show because it was a bit of a vulnerability… but it was there.

"I made a mistake—laid the bet on the wrong team, but I paid him the money back… and then he told me we were going to be doing business together. That he _owned_ me. He wants me to… compromise the chain of custody, in the Henderson rape case. This is the first time he's asked me for anything, he said that I'll be off the hook after this…"

He turned to look at me, and his wide, bright green eyes were frantic.

"Listen, Griss, I know as my… _supervisor_, you have to tell me to follow protocol and to turn Cohen in and… and all of that. But, I'm… I'm not asking my supervisor for advice. I'm asking… a friend. A man I respect, who has given me the benefit of doubt more often than I deserve…"

I draw in a deep breath, and nod, slowly, amazed at my ability to remain calm with the information he's just given me. He nods too, and then moves swiftly to sit in the chair across from my desk, his entire being earnest… nothing like the cool, confident man I see each and every day. I wonder briefly if the Warrick I have known and befriended has been as false as Sara's bravado, but I shake that thought away. I'll have time to consider that later—just now, it doesn't matter what his mask is or when he wears it… what matters is that his emotions are laid bare across his features and he is begging with them, for help.

"With Judge Cohen... I know the score. I know a young, black man, with only a few years in law enforcement under his belt, accusing a respected, white judge whose been 'serving' Las Vegas for the greater portion of his life without any proof… not only is it career suicide—I'll barely scratch the man's ego, and end everything for myself—but it's… well, quite frankly, I'm… starting to believe it's dangerous."

I watch him for a long time, and I know the position he's in. I know what I want to tell him, and yet I remind myself that he knows what a supervisor would say to him. He wants to know what his friend thinks. I sigh, softly, and avert my gaze briefly to the surface of my desk, before looking to the man again.

"You know that… that I chose this particular vocation because of my… devotion to evidence… truth… justice." He nods, and looks almost resigned, but I forge ahead.

"So believe me when I tell you that it isn't the supervisor in me speaking that believes, as a matter of principle, you shouldn't compromise those things with which you have been entrusted." I pause a moment, holding his gaze. "But on a personal level… I can't tell you to sacrifice everything you've worked for… for a fruitless endeavor. I simply wonder whether you'll… even have that which you've worked for, if you cow tow to a man like Cohen."

He bows his head, deeply, and I take a moment to let this sink in, before continuing.

"That being said—it is my experience that men like Cohen… there is never an end to their demands. You do this for him, and he has something far more serious than a matter of trading a legal bet for a warrant you could have gotten from another judge anyway—although that is hardly something to be taken lightly, you understand. And, again, men like Cohen… have a way of distancing themselves, so that they are never held accountable for their roles in the corruption. …You do this for him, and he's _right_ when he says he owns you, 'Rick."

He lifts his head swiftly, and there's fire in his green eyes now. "Nobody owns me." It comes out almost as a growl, and yet I smile affectionately at the sound. That's more the Warrick I know—perhaps he didn't have a mask, after all. Most people simply didn't naturally wear their hearts on their sleeves as Sara did, when unmasked.

"Then, I think… you need to bury him before he buries you. …I'll call Jim."

His eyes widen, and I remember Jim's influence in the night in question… but I also know that Jim feels exceedingly guilty for his behavior that night, towards Holly and everyone else. …I know that Jim used to be called 'Squeaky' because he was a clean cop in a dirty district. And I know that he would never pass up the chance to reveal a dirty judge for what he is…

I give a tight-lipped smile. "Even if he's still mad at you, War', I guarantee his anger will be focused on the judge. If there's one thing he hates, it's a dirty… well, cop, judge… you understand."

And those eyes, though still fiery, are calm and trusting too. Trusting me. He nods, just once, and I make the call.

Warrick's dilemma was definitely big—personally and professionally as alarming as Catherine's… although a minor interaction kept playing in my mind, along with the larger concerns of this 'people stuff' with Warrick and Catherine. Of course, it was Greg.

Somehow, it was always Greg. He and Sara both had a way of getting under my skin… Sara could do it with a word or two, and it was generally intentional, though occasionally not. Greg generally needed a whole conversation… on bad days, a complete sentence… but he could still do it, usually blissfully unaware.

This time, it was my realization of how similar his view of me is to Sara's view of me, minus our history. On a purely professional level, I realized that he too remembered things I'd said that I didn't remember saying myself… and that was… worrying, though I couldn't truly explain to myself why.

Despite being irritated that he was teasing me that Catherine's old-fashioned leg-work had found our victim's boat faster than my experiment—by mere seconds, _really_—I was rather impressed that he knew my Robert Frost reference. I had been of the impression that, although thoroughly skilled in the DNA lab, he was otherwise a walking stereotype for his generation. But no, he surprises me again.

"Come on, level with me. Who do you think killed her—the husband or the boyfriend?"

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. "And you've narrowed it down to just two suspects?"

I wasn't surprised that he was thinking about the case—that was one of the reasons he was so good at DNA. Besides his skill and speed, he had a gift for understanding evidence in context, and therefore being able to make the right comparisons and associations without being told.

"Actually… you did. You see, my second week at CSI, you told me that when a cheating spouse is murdered there's always two suspects at the top of the list—the lover and the betrayed."

"I told you this?" I didn't remember saying this, though it certainly sounded like me… Those first few weeks, the only thing I remember of Greg was my abject dislike for him, and his obnoxiously bright good-spirits. …Although, in truth, that optimism had begun to grow on me. A little bit. …A very little bit.

"Mhmm. You see, I'm thinking that the husband caught Wendy with the boyfriend and when she left his house, he killed her in a jealous rage." He says, with too much enthusiasm… obviously a man who deals with murder in the theoretical every day, rather than up-close and personal. It's different, being in the lab…

I try not to sound too impatient as I stand, thankful I'd mostly finished my Chinese food before he'd entered. "And this theory is based on…?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to help."

For the record, he was less than helpful.

And as if it wasn't enough, dealing with Warrick's personal demons and the very real knowledge that I would have had to turn him in before he could compromise evidence if he hadn't made the right decision on his own, and Greg—so very young—serving only to remind me how young Sara was… hardly an acceptable object of desire for a man my age, there was Catherine.

The woman whose death we'd been investigating had been having an affair. Catherine, in the course of our investigation, revealed to the husband this truth… probably because there was a large part of the husband that already knew, and probably because she was still dealing with Eddie's infidelities, and probably because she made no secret that she hadn't completely forgiven me for not telling her of said infidelities, when I discovered them.

We fought—and Catherine and I rarely fought, though it did always seem to involve her philandering husband, when we did. I told her she needed to separate herself from her cases—keep a level of emotional detachment. And she accused me of living a lonely, empty, meaningless shell of a life. My meager defense—that my personal stuff never interfered with work—hardly fazed her. Her response was simple, and biting.

_"What personal stuff?"_

And even when we walked into the boyfriend's house to find him dead at the hands of her widowed husband, because Catherine had led him to believe that her lover had killed her… I couldn't bring myself to believe she'd been wrong.

Well, no… she'd been wrong to tell the husband, even if he did deserve to know… it wasn't our place to tell. But she hadn't been wrong about the nothingness in which I lived, day in and day out.

Make that _three_ people who could get under my skin.


	70. Flirting, Time Share Coffins and Relgion

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: :)

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Chapter 10: Flirting, Time-share Coffins, and Religion…

On a good day, I liked Catherine a lot. We hadn't grown up in the same households, granted, but… certainly in the same socio-economic class. She was raised by a single mother, and she'd been a stripper to pay for college and support her family. Although I couldn't see myself doing such a thing—not least of all because I don't have the body that Catherine does—I empathize. And in truth, Warrick's growing on me too. I don't open up to him or even joke with him, the way I do with Nick and Greg, but… he's got similar roots too. Something that Nick and Greg can't quite grasp because they never had to live it…. and even Grissom doesn't get it. Not really.

Despite starting to feel like I was… a part of the team, now… I appreciated it when Grissom gave me solo cases… a little time away from the others, and a small showing of faith in my abilities… nothing else like it to lift my spirits and give me a little false hope to cling to. This case, however, was… strange. I had a DB in a dumpster covered in embalming fluid. Confirming that she had, indeed, been embalmed sent me to the morgue… where I learned that she had had a funeral the previous week… and where David Phillips attempted to flirt with me.

I had only met David the previous week—there were an awful lot of M.E's in the Vegas lab, although it seemed like, with the volume of the cases, they must all be needed. Except for _Jenna_. I had noticed that Grissom was almost as close to her as he was to Catherine. …_She_ probably wasn't needed.

David was a quiet, shy man, a little older than me… but not in the way that generally attracted me to older men. If I hadn't had any visual cues to tell me so, I wouldn't have known he was older… and really, it was less about appearance, and more about compatibility, with the older members of the opposite sex.

Still, he might have been the kindest person I'd ever met… hesitant and courteous, and deeply sentimental—you could just tell. He might cut people open for a living, but he couldn't hurt a fly. You could tell that he was the kind of man who would feel guilty for killing a mosquito that was biting him… and not because he could knew how it fit perfectly into the food chain and provided balance, or because he could list all the positive benefits to human society the creature's existence created, or even because he just really liked bugs that much… but because the act of taking a life was beyond him.

And when a man hits on you, in the way he hit on me… you can't help but feel a rush of affection for him, even if you're not interested. Especially if you're in a tank top in a freezing morgue, and his eyes don't even look tempted to flicker below your face, because he honestly respects you that much.

He telss me he 'really admires the gusto with which I approach my job.' …He really _is_ too sweet for his own good. I let my eyes flicker to him and away, considering his comments for a moment, a smile creeping over my lips. "Are you… hitting on me, David?"

He smiles shyly, looking away and back, and I feel like it would almost be unkind to give him the generic—although heart-wrenchingly true—response that I'm hung up on my ex… and instead, I glance over the man as a prospective love interest for the first time. Maybe I could help him out, anyway…

"Let me give you some… friendly advice." I grin, making my expression playful, to ease his discomfort. I don't want him to feel like he's being rejected. "If you wanna pull chicks, you gotta get aggressive…" He looks down."You gotta drop the glasses, lose the coat… grow some scruff." He looks a little embarrassed at my criticisms, but I keep my eyes locked on his. "You _do_ get a C for '_cute_' though…" His eyes flicker shyly to me and away, but a bright smile crosses his face.

I fight the second surge of affection for him, restraining myself from standing and pulling him into a hug, because he's so sweet—a teddy bear of a man, really—and it breaks my heart that my minimal attention and compliment can make his face light up so much. I turn to the computer instead, and am immediately distracted—my DB had been buried the previous week.

It was a disturbing case—at first I thought it was simple grave-robbing, but the funeral director was too nervous for his own good, and the lack of a coffin in the woman's grave was… suspicious. They were dumping bodies and reusing—_reselling_—caskets. For around ten thousand a piece, apparently. …Was there to be no rest—no freedom from the ills of the world and the greed of the masses—even in death?

I had said I wanted to be cremated on a whim, really—I just didn't like the idea of grave robbery. And then… to be so disrespected and disregarded after death by the people you paid to take care of you when you were beyond helping yourself… it felt wrong. Almost like a personal kind of betrayal. Maybe cremation was the better alternative after all.

Kelly teased me for being a hippie, often, although she was certainly one herself… but really, the whole 'dust in the wind' concept worked for me. I had always had trouble with the idea of something all-knowing and all-seeing. This wasn't because I thought I wouldn't have grown up the way I had if there had been a God to save me from all of that… I wasn't naïve enough to believe that my problems were the worst on the planet, or even that they were rare. It was worse because my childhood was all too common…

I just felt like if there were evidence on either side of the debate, it was in favor of the atheists… hadn't every culture in the entire history of the world worshipped something? Psychologically speaking, wasn't it true that humans, as a whole, needed to believe in something bigger than themselves to give their lives a sense of purpose?

Religion seemed like the natural solution for—and a fairly negative side-effect of—a species which had reached a cognitive ability advanced enough to realize how insignificant they, as individuals, truly were.

But if I did believe in something, it was in the nature of the world. I believed that animals evolved in ways that helped them survive—and that this was for the greater good. I believed that it was beautiful that everything alive was made of the same element… that all life was equal, in the greater picture… and that my death could provide life for the future. I believed in psychics, and the laws involved—the precise mechanics by which everything functioned. I believed in chemistry, and the chemical make-up of everything in existence being precise, and orderly, and breathtaking in its simultaneous complexity and simplicity.

If science could be a religion—not a study or a respected truth, but a faith in every sense, to be followed and worshipped and treated with reverence—it would be mine.

And this belief did give me a feeling of belonging and significance in the greater world around me, so perhaps I was using science to fulfill that basic human need which I had scoffed at. Still, it was a positive thing for me, all in all… being married to my job at twenty-eight had been a rather sad prospect in my mind, especially after losing Gi—Grissom, and with him, any desire I'd hidden away of being a mother. Finding meaning in that job—the noble pursuit of science for the greater good—became what I imagine colonizing missionaries must have felt in their vocations, although perhaps without the harmful side-effects of killing, enslaving, and forcing assimilation…

And in truth, I needed that kind of devotion in my life, from one source or another.


	71. Manhattan Express

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: It's short, so I figured I'd give you two in one day. I'm trying to make up for the shortage of postings, lately. :) Enjoy!

Oh, and let me know what you think. This one makes me sad. :(

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Chapter 11: Manhattan Express

I couldn't believe that I had never talked to Amber about drugs.

How could I have been so careless… so foolish? Hadn't I read somewhere, years ago, that the average age of first marijuana use was fourteen? Or was it thirteen? And that alcohol use often started before the age of twelve. Certainly, at the age of ten, she had been old enough to be given that talk.

I mutely seated myself, the shoulder-restraints coming down and locking me in place. I passed the attendant a bill, and proceeded to ride the empty roller coaster until it closed. It had been a long time since I'd done a roller-coaster marathon, but I needed it tonight. I hardly felt like I was on a roller coaster at all—it was with a distant and uncaring awareness that I took in the flips and turns and drops.

We'd found a teenager, somewhere around Amber's age, out in the desert… in Red Rock Canyon. Just being out there gave me an ominous feeling of foreboding, and I should have realized then exactly what the case would put me through. They were just kids—it was the first time they'd ever done a drug… only chosen to do it because the punk-ass little shit who sold it to them assured them it was safe.

And even if the drug didn't kill the boy, it did something worse… it caused his friend to kill him, suffocate him, while in the midst of terrifying auditory hallucinations. He had covered his friend's mouth, trying to make the sounds that weren't real go away, and…

I hand the man another bill to keep going around, confused but somewhat grateful at how empty the coaster is today. You have to ride a lot longer to get over things when there's people around you… they distract and detract and complicate. You sit in the midst of strangers with the full awareness that they live each day believing in a just society, if not a just world, not knowing that death and despair linger on every doorstep, and that there are people in this world that truly are nightmare-worthy.

They don't know that the world isn't a safe place.

And my baby is out there, surrounded by drugs and cigarettes, alcohol and boys pressuring her for sex, and a mother who certainly couldn't be stable if she had exposed her to a man like Jack Murphy in the first place.

…At which point it hits me—I don't know how I didn't consider this before—but what would Laura have been able to give witness to? Sure she'd dated the guy but… would a pro like him let his girlfriend know the details of his drug trafficking if she wasn't into it too? If she wasn't using, if not helping?

My head swims with statistics, trying to remember if she'd ever seemed out of it on the phone, or if Amber had ever said anything revealing, to indicate drug-use on Laura's part, trying to recall exactly how much more likely children whose parents abused drugs were to use and abuse drugs themselves. What if my golden little angel was already a drug addict… doing god-knows what for god-knows who for a hit…

Heroin, cocaine, meth…

I felt sick at the thought, but the idea of leaving the roller coaster now was unbearable. My stomach churned and sweat broke out across my body as I struggled to think through the pain in my head. Surely I had no proof of something like that. Surely I had no indication that Laura would ever even try drugs.

And she'd gotten away from the guy—this much I _did_ know. She wouldn't let herself fall back into something like that, would she?

I pass the man another bill wordlessly, and he shakes his head—probably at my physical state of being. I feel haggard—when I think about my face I feel as though it must reflect at least a portion of my pain, because I don't know how it could not. I feel like I can't breathe deeply. I feel cold. But I pass him bills when necessary, and the attendant lets me ride until midnight, when they shut down, and I rise out of the car on shaky feet.

For the first time, hours on a roller coaster haven't helped me gain perspective… put a case behind me… feel better from the emotion strain of the job. …Because it isn't just the job, it's my whole world crashing down around me, and I don't have the effort to even think about stopping it.

I retreat to my empty townhome—and my empty life, as Catherine would have me know—and I curl into a bed much too big for myself, remembering the high hopes I'd had of sharing it with Sara… or of when I purchased the place… how I'd wanted a room so Laura and Amber could visit. How I'd dreamed of that.

They never had, and they never would, and I didn't even know if Amber was alive and okay.

She _needs_ a daddy in this world of horrors too vivid to comprehend or explain or endure… And I need my baby.


	72. Breakfast

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, etc.

A/N: Sorry for the long break in updates...I got caught up in a new story.

Thanks for all the reviews! I should have another chapter up tomorrow, I think. I hope.

Enjoy! :)

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Chapter 12: Breakfast

Nick and Warrick were close—so I should have assumed that inviting Nick to join our weekly breakfasts would result in Warrick's eventual involvement as well. He wasn't as open as Nick and Greg—a little more reserved, a little more like me—but he was genuinely difficult to dislike. He had an easy smile, eyes that begged you to trust, and a kind soul… you could just tell.

The problem was that now that it was becoming a group affair, they were talking about our breakfasts openly in the locker room… on cases… waiting for evidence… which wasn't bad—it wasn't a secret—but it could only be a matter of time before others came along…

And, of course, Catherine invited herself within a week of Warrick being invited. But that might just be because she wanted him almost as much as she still wanted her ex-husband. Almost as much as I still wanted Grissom.

Regardless, she was not easy, like the men on the team, with whom I had slipped into a simple, uncomplicated camaraderie. She was difficult, and opinionated, and did not like to share the attention of the men on the team. I didn't view them as _men_ in the way she did—and she clearly did—but I certainly didn't want to sit in the corner of the booth and eat my breakfast sausage in silence while she dominated a tradition that Greg and I had started and had not invited her to join, despite how fervently Greg flirted with her.

So the breakfasts were bound to be rocky, at least at first. I figured that with Catherine, _his blonde_, and Warrick, _his favorite_, it was only a matter of time before Grissom started frequenting the diner with us. He was less social with the team than he had been, one-on-one, with me… but I wasn't wrong.

At the end of a particularly long shift—long and trying—Warrick says to the unusually crowded locker room that we should have breakfast, even though it isn't our normal morning, simply because he doesn't want to go home yet. The word 'alone' is implied, though he doesn't say it aloud. Nick jumps on it, enthusiastically patting my shoulder as he hurries out of the room to ask Greg if he wants to come, and Catherine—with a highly unnecessary hair toss—makes some comment about Lindsey and Eddie and her mother which I am far too tired to hear, and agrees to go.

Apparently my participation is tacitly assumed, because Warrick smiles gently at the pair of us and suggests we ask Grissom to go. My eyebrows rise, but Catherine enthuses over it, saying that he hasn't gone out for breakfast with the team since before Holly. She flounces away to invite him, leaving a realization in her wake that I can't help but be swept up in—Grissom had not gone out for breakfast with them since I came to Vegas.

I sigh, wondering at how my move had pushed us further apart. Prior to living in Vegas, we had called each other… spoke often, about safe topics, yes, but it was better than nothing. Now that I'm here, it feels like we can't even do that. That he doesn't want to do that.

Maybe it's my fault. I had insisted on calling him Grissom… occasionally flaunted my relationship with Greg because I knew it bothered him… maybe I had burned my bridges. But… that wasn't an acceptable situation. Whatever else I knew about my life, I knew that I never wanted to screw up Grissom and I's relationship so badly that we couldn't even be friends.

When Catherine returns to tell us that Grissom and Greg had both agreed to go, I draw in a deep, steadying breath. If I had burned bridges, I would rebuild them.

We were seated in a wrap-around booth that did not comfortably seat six—as I was the last in the line of CSIs moving through the diner, I ended up in a chair on the end. This really wouldn't have been bad, but the booth itself was raised higher than the floor, but there was no room for a chair on the platform. And I was right in the primary path taken from the kitchen to the majority of the patrons. After the third time I had to stand to allow a waitress with an overflowing tray pass me, and the second time someone trying to sneak around my chair elbowed me in the head, Nick had had enough.

"Sara, come sit up here. We'll all scoot together, really." At this he looks to the others and they shuffle closer to allow me the space to sit. The available spot is next to Greg, but he's getting a death look from Grissom for how close he's scooted against the older man.

"Sorry Griss, she won't have any room otherwise…" Grissom raises an eyebrow, and Greg becomes visibly smaller under his gaze.

Warrick chuckles, offering the most awkward of solutions. "Put Sara between you two if you don't want to be rubbing man-elbows."

Nick, Catherine, and even Greg laugh—Grissom does not, but he seems less opposed to my proximity than Greg's. I slide in, and am promptly sandwiched between the only two men I'd slept with in the last… seven years. How nice.

I bite my bottom lip in apprehension as the conversation picks up around us—something about a school thing Lindsey was doing—shoulder to shoulder to shoulder with the pair of them. Greg shifts, uncomfortable, and ends up putting his arm over my seat back, just to allow more breathing room between us. His fingers brush Grissom's shoulder, however, and then his hand shoots back like he's been burned, hitting me in the back of the head in the process.

I wince. Damn it, that's getting annoying. I feel myself longing for the days in which I had an entire side of a booth to myself, back when only Greg and I—Gi—Grissom's hand is on my knee. Oh god, his hand is on my knee.

I nearly gasp out loud. It's a gentle, non-sexual sort of touch… meant to apologize, silently and discreetly, for being the cause of Greg's clumsiness and the subsequent pounding in my head. Still though, it makes my heart race… I look intently at my water glass, trying to focus… to not give away the effect it's having on me… and then there's a hand on my other knee.

A smaller hand, and not nearly as warm.

I literally jump at the realization and smack Greg's hand away angrily—because his had not been an apology… his hand had already been inching upwards. "Greg!"

He chuckles, moving his hand above the table and shaking it, as if that would stop the stinging. "_Ow_, Sara, you didn't have to hit me so hard!" He whines playfully and I let out an exasperated sigh.

"Then keep your hands to yourself!"

He grins, and I knew before he can open his mouth that he's going to comment on our foolish, foolish night of passion. He has a playful glint in his eyes that I recognize from his earlier teasing, and my eyes are wide as he draws a breath to speak. I dig the nails of my left hand into his leg, trying to silence him… and forgetting that he's extremely ticklish.

He laughs and squirms and nearly falls out of the booth, making it far too obvious that I've touched him—in what looks like a playful manner. I'm left with my right knee cold, three pairs of eyes glued to me, one pair still shut tightly in laughter, and the final pair… averted.

There's a tightness to his lips as he drinks his coffee in silence, and I can't decipher what he's thinking. I feel like I used to be able to do that…decipher his thoughts from his facial expressions… but not in Vegas. He's more guarded, here.

I laugh, belatedly, to shrug off their eyes and questions, and then the food arrives. They stop staring, but the interaction hangs over the table like a fog that only Greg is apparently unaware of. I take the opportunity to place a hand on Grissom's knee, to reassure him, but he moves his leg out from under my grasp almost roughly, punishing me for what must have looked like flirting… but wasn't. It really, honestly, wasn't.

The rest of the breakfast is quiet. I had been thinking, when it first started, that Greg and I would have to find a new tradition, just the two of us, because I was overwhelmed in the large group… but right now, I'm not sure I ever want to see Greg again. It's overdramatic of me, but I feel as though every time we move forward, something happens to fling us further backwards… and its heart wrenching to endure, over and over.

As soon as half of us finish, I pull a twenty from my purse and set it on the table, the edge tucked under my plate, my left elbow nudging Greg adamantly to get him to let me out of the booth. "Well, this, uh… was… fun." My voice says that it has been anything but, and I struggle to brighten it. "We'll do it again next week, yeah? See you guys later!"

And I sweep from the diner, so tired of this whole Vegas thing. I miss my apartment in Berkeley, and I miss working in a lab in which I'm not constantly walking on egg shells. I miss the ocean, I miss the hills and the greenery and the early morning fogs… and I miss the difficult friendship with Gi-_Grissom_ that I've lost. Vegas just isn't… _home_.


	73. Teri Miller

Disclaimer: I don't own them, etc.

A/N: Sorry I've been neglecting this story lately. I've been a little distracted... which is fine for my other stories, but Destiny is my baby, and I get crazy upset at myself when I write something too hastily and end up not liking it after I've already posted, even if its small. So I wanted to be in the right frame of mind before I updated this one.

Hopefully we'll be back to regular updates, but I can't make any promises. :) I'm trying.

Hope you enjoy and please review! It makes me so happy to know what you think!

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Chapter 13: Teri Miller

I wanted to pair Sara with myself that night, feeling guilty for my overreaction at the diner, but Nick and I were still working the case from the previous night—a body cemented into the foundation of a house, and Eddie Willows was being accused of rape… and so I needed to discuss the issue with Catherine. I gave her an Officer Involved Shooting, anticipating Warrick's interest—they were both vehemently concerned with the truth more than avoiding a war between PD and CSI—and in this way, they paired themselves together, rather than me sticking her with someone she might still dislike.

She took it in stride, however, seeming unconcerned and even excited for the scene, making the teasing stipulation that she was driving, to which Warrick responded, "Picture that." …I wasn't sure what it meant, but I was pretty sure he was arguing with her. Still, it was nice to see them getting along… maybe things would settle down for a while.

Catherine insisted on taking Eddie's case, the prelim, at least… which I had anticipated as well. But after the blow up she'd had at me over Eddie's indiscretions, there was a part of me that thought she needed to be a part of this case, in the most hands-off way possible. Who was I to keep her from it, provided she did nothing to compromise evidence? I told her to pass it off, after the prelim, and the look she gave me made me skeptical that this would happen… I would need to check up on her.

And then—I met Teri Miller.

I had called her in to help us reconstruct our Jane Doe's face from the impression it had left in the concrete in which she'd been buried, to see if someone could identify her… give us a starting place. I had pulled Stevie out of his terrarium to feed him and distract myself for a moment—sometimes insight came when you didn't focus directly on the problem at hand. A soft knocking came, and I found myself interested in a woman without effort, for the first time since I'd met Sara.

I think, to some extent, I liked that she was _unlike_ Sara. Blonde hair could not remind me of sensuously brown locks… and her voice lacked the husky quality… the slight, musical lilt of Sara's, instead it was both breathy and steady. I liked the contrast. And she offered to hold Stevie… No, not offered. Wanted to. She was completely unafraid, and instead seemed to look at him the way most people looked at a dog—as an animal almost human… and certainly an individual. Most people didn't see spiders as individuals.

Our fingers brushed when Stevie moved from my hand to hers, and I felt that long-lost 'butterflies-in-your-stomach' feeling, and I relished it. It was good to _feel_ strongly, especially when it was feeling positively.

I took her to the concrete slab, and watched her beginning to make the mold of the facial impression. She seemed to sense my interest, and her voice came softly when she guided my hand to the task, telling me that I should enjoy it, because it was as much science as it was art.

"My mother's an artist."

She glances up at me, and though I know she doesn't understand how strange it is for me to make such a revelation when I first meet a woman… I feel like she senses the significance. Or maybe my own surprise gave it away; I don't know why I told her.

"Sculptor?"

I shrug, as if I'm unconcerned, but her slim fingers guiding my hands in the plaster are making my breathing come just a little faster. "A little. Mostly, she's a painter. She runs a gallery, outside of L.A."

I wondered vaguely why I was telling her this when I had never told Sara—she only knew what I had told Kelly—but then, for the most part, we avoided talking about our families, because her past was a secret I could never ask about. Which was, really, a horrible way to start a relationship. Why on earth had I ever agreed to such a thing?

My mind shot back to the day at the sandwich shop, her teasing words about sex on the beach playing distantly before I redirected my thoughts—she had warned me that she likely would tell me little to nothing, and leave me high and dry if I pushed it. And I…? I had been unwilling to let her leave so easily… and somewhat relieved that I would not be expected to relive the horrors of my own life, if I didn't want to.

Her fingers glide between mine with a thick, wet sound from the plaster, bringing me back to the present as heat shoots down my spine. It felt… amazing… to feel like a man again. I hadn't felt this way about a woman without the accompanying anguish of grief in so very, very long.

I swallow hard to regain a little composure, and glance over at her face—all angles and shadows, from the darkness of the room, illuminated by a single bright light above our heads. The effect was striking, and lovely, and I knew—without thinking about such a thing—that I wanted to kiss her. She met my gaze, and the twitch at the corner of her lips told me that she knew what I was thinking… but she did not shy away, or avert her eyes, and my heart thudded more persistently in my chest.

The rest of the case followed in the blur, without only a few striking moments standing out in my mind. Warrick attempting, poorly, to cover for the fact that Catherine hadn't handed her case off… and then Catherine revealing that Eddie liked rough sex, by use of the words 'involved' and 'vigorous.' I'm sure the pair of them thought I was incomprehensibly unaware, if I hadn't been able to understand her meaning… but the truth was, I was in a bit of a daze.

Unintentionally, throughout the day, I would find myself reliving the slick slide of fingers and the look of her face, half-cast in shadow.

I broke through this haze when Warrick and the officer he and Sara were investigating, Officer Tyner, had a shouting match in the hall that was broken up by Brass' and only moments before it became physical, with Sara trying and failing to hold Warrick back. Although I disagreed with Jim on a lot of counts, more and more as of late, the pair of us had never been directly at odds. We had a lot of respect for each other. But we had words, in that hallway, because I would not tolerate intimidation tactics by the LVPD on some of the best damn CSIs in the country. My team deserved better than that.

…I had a feeling Jim and I would bounce back, but it might take a while.

I also had a moment of awareness when Nick stepped on a floorboard in the home of our Jane Doe's fiancé. We now knew her name to be Fay Green, and she had had sand and salt in her inner ear. There was an aquarium in his home, with salt water fish. We were asked to leave when we found sand and salt beneath their floorboards, but it was only a matter of time before we obtained a warrant.

I was walking through the halls of CSI with Nick, headed back to the scene, when, in yet another 'awake' moment, I saw Teri headed for the door, a suitcase rolling behind her. "Hey! You weren't going to say goodbye to me?" I don't remember being this playful… or outgoing, but then, Teri had awakened a part of me that had been barely alive and certainly not aware for some time now. I almost felt giddy with the change.

She smiles at me, a genuine—but coy—smile. "Thought I'd let you off easy. But I did tack my number on your big fish cork board… under "cold cases." The smile turns teasing, but still gentle and honest. I grin a little self-indulgently.

"The ones that got away."

"Let's hope not." Her voice was soft, even in its directness, and I felt the same hot, swooping sensation flit through me and settle deep in my abdomen.

Perhaps it was my distraction that allowed me to miss the obvious… to misjudge Jason Hendler's honest remorse, and miss the nervous flickering in his wife's eyes. I didn't realize my mistake until it was painfully obvious—Jason, ranting and emotional about his imminent arrest, threw out the question, "Why do you care so much about the floors? I mean, Amy paints them every spring. It's no big deal."

It has been said that 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' and in this job, I have certainly never seen this disproven. I raced back inside, to find Amy holding Nick at gunpoint, while he tried to gently talk her down with tears swimming in his eyes. Although earlier in the day I had yelled at Officer Tyner that I hoped I never had to draw my weapon in the line of duty, my service weapon was gripped easily in my hands as I approached the pair, slow and deliberate.

I disliked the gun… disliked carrying it… but I would never do so if I were not fully competent with such a dangerous item. And so there was no nervousness… no hesitation… just a need to remain steady and in control of the situation, because most people didn't want to kill anyone else. Most people acted in passion, and were remorseful later. Most people would find it harder to kill a stranger than to kill someone they resented or envied or hated.

"Mrs. Hendler." She spun to face me, our guns facing off in a stalemate. I was unconcerned—her hands were shaking and tears were brimming in her eyes. She posed only a minor threat, in this situation. I cautioned Nick to be still—having two guns on her would make her feel vulnerable. Right now, she felt as if no one had the upper hand… and that was necessary. People were far rasher than normal when under pressure.

"Please. I don't want to fire my gun anymore than you do. For five years, you've been washing the blood off your hands. …Let's put down the guns." I lowered mine, slowly, and she followed suit, Nick finally allowing himself a moment to exhale in relief and get his bearings. He still had the tears in his eyes, and I didn't blame him.

I blamed myself. How I had allowed myself to be so distracted by a woman I hardly knew, how I had put Nick in danger, because of that distraction, I didn't know. But it couldn't happen again.


	74. Insomnia

Disclaimer: Not only do I not own CSI, but in this chapter, I also don't own Ghost (the movie) or (as usual) Of Mice and Men.

A/N: :) I have the next chapter about half finished, so I'm doing good so far! If you've never read Of Mice and Men--Lennie is one of the main characters who is mentally handicapped and therefore completely innocent and pure, but also unable to protect himself from some of the mistakes he unwittingly makes. I figured not everyone has read it, and I didn't want to spoil the story, but if you want to know the ending, you can PM me and I'll explain why it's 'unhealthy' for her to think that way.

Anyway, let me know what you think! :)

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Chapter 14: Insomnia

The dreams were touch and go, for a while… when they came, they were bad, and I'd be up for days at a time. When they left, I took a moment to be desperately relieved, and collapsed in exhaustion. It was not a good system, although I was learning that I could function on less sleep than I ever thought possible—an impressive discovery from someone who had always suffered from nightmares. Working the night shift did mean that you worked more hours and slept less often than anyone else in the lab… You were chronically sleep deprived on a good day.

I started trying to coax the guys into breakfasts almost every morning after shift, because if I forced myself to stay awake and eat large portions, my body usually allowed me dreamless sleep. …Usually. The problem was the Nick and Greg, between them, had the biggest mouths in the entire eff-ing world, and Warrick could not be depended upon to help me silence them when needed.

Greg started it. He was perversely intrigued by the knowledge that Catherine had been an exotic dancer before she became a CSI. Apparently, this was news in the lab… but it hadn't been news to me. Gi—Grissom had told me, a long time ago. …It was always hard, not to think of his as 'Gil' when I thought of how we used to be. But he was steadfastly _Grissom_ in the present, at least.

"I just… can't stop thinking about it. She worked at the palace… do you know how _little_ they wear?"

Warrick had chuckled indulgently. "They're strippers, Greg. None of them wear very much."

Greg rolled his eyes—clearly they didn't understand. "But… this is Catherine!"

Nick interjected. "I heard Grissom was pretty mad at her for not passing the case off to you." He was speaking to Warrick, who shrugged reluctantly. It wasn't really in his nature to gossip.

"He wasn't that mad. You know he lets Catherine get away with just about anything."

I cringed. Of course he did.

"Yeah, that's probably why Eddie was always jealous of Griss." Nick nods, knowingly, and though my head snaps up, I can't bring myself to ask.

Luckily, Greg is under no such temporary paralysis. "Wait, Catherine's ex-husband was jealous of… Grissom?"

Both Warrick and Nick chuckled, the Texas indulgently answering his young friend. "Yeah, well, you know… they worked together for a long time… Grissom probably hasn't gotten laid in years… Catherine's hot. It doesn't take an extreme stretch of the imagination."

Warrick shook his head. "No, but it takes a complete disregard for evidence, of which there is none. The only time they see each other outside of work is when Grissom has taken Lindsey while she and Eddie were fighting. Heck, even I've done that a time or two…"

Greg jumped in. "Yeah, but they're close. Like, at work they seem like they hardly know each other, but if you catch them talking one-on-one, they're totally in sync."

"Yeah, but Grissom wouldn't cheat." Warrick said, with just a hair too much emphasis. Nick glanced at him, picking up on it, while Greg didn't seem to notice. But then, he could have been where I was—stuck on the word "cheat" and exactly what that could mean.

"Cheat?!" Greg exclaimed. Ah, there it was. He sounded nearly as alarmed as I felt. Surely, Grissom didn't have a girl friend… I mean, I knew that… that we weren't together. I just… I didn't think he would be with anyone else, either.

Nick nodded. "Yeah, I was telling Warrick. He looks like he's got it bad for that forensic artist who came in to help on our case. If he and Catherine were together… hell, even if they were just sleeping together… he'd never act that way. It's just not… Grissom."

Warrick nodded decisively, as if that ended the conversation completely. Greg just looked surprised, an 'Oh' expression stuck on his face. But I couldn't drop it. I had the presence of mind to take a deep breath and calm myself before speaking, because I didn't want to give away the reason for my questions… but I had to know.

"No way. Grissom wouldn't cheat because Grissom doesn't… date. I mean, does he really seem like the kind of guy to meet someone and fall for them? He's too… thoughtful. Meticulous. He'd have to double and triple check if there was evidence of an attraction…"

I was over-talking. They all laughed, although Nick looked a little too knowing. I didn't meet his eyes when he spoke up, to answer me. "Well, I don't know… word around the lab is that she had him wrist-deep in plaster, Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore style."

Warrick chuckled. " Ghost. Great movie. It's was my _sure-thing_."

I nearly choked on the water I had been drinking in an attempt to steady myself. "You—Your what?!"

All the men chuckled and Greg swung his arm over my shoulder. "You know… second or third date, have her come over… you cook her favorite meal, put in a sappy love movie… if she planned to spend the night when she came over, you don't see past the pottery scene… if not, well, by the end…"

My eyes widened. "That's horrible! So, you… what, just… steal the romance from a chick flick so you don't have to put in the effort? Does it replace foreplay, or just having to speak to her and get to know her?"

Greg laughed outright. "Well, it could be both, depending on the girl…"

I pushed his arm roughly off me and angrily speared a piece of my omelet with my fork. They laughed again, but Warrick played peacemaker. "Sara, I… I really didn't mean it that way. It was a sure way to get a girl I already knew feeling romantic. Believe me, I _never_ skip on foreplay."

He winked, albeit playfully, and I blushed, despite myself, bringing a laugh from the group again. Apparently I was the breakfast entertainment. Ugh.

Nick shifted in his seat, lifting his own fork again to resume eating, a smirk on his lips. "Anyway, plaster sex aside," Oh, and there I was, choking again. "She left him her number so—Are… are you okay, Sar'?"

"Fine…" I croaked out, reaching desperately for my water glass. They all laughed again. Just great.

I didn't sleep that night… or several nights, after. Most of my waking hours were spent driving out visions of Grissom and Catherine or Grissom and _Teri Miller_, I had learned her name was. I hadn't seen her, but I _knew _she was blonde. I just knew it. Seeing as I couldn't banish the pair of them—and, thanks to a certain breakfast conversation, all three of them together—from my mind when I was aware… I knew better than to even try to sleep.

I read the copy of Of Mice and Men that Grissom had given me, cover to cover, several times. …Sometimes it helped, and sometimes I wondered if I wasn't a little like Lennie. Maybe I didn't need someone to make up for my intellectual downfalls, but emotionally I was certainly crippled. …Maybe I would be better off if I wasn't allowed to blindly destroy my own life, over and over again.

That would be when I'd put the book away and turn on the police scanner instead. It was healthier not to think like that.


	75. Hope

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Oookay, so I'm sorry it took me so long to update. And I'm sorry this is a short chapter. The website I use to watch the episodes so I can obsess over details currently wants me to fill out a survey and subscribe to a bunch of places via email before it will let me view any... and I'm not really willing to do that. :) Sooo, that's why this one was so long in coming, and short. Hopefully, I'll pick up posting again after Christmas!

Happy Holidays everyone, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy! :)

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Chapter 15: Hope

I received a large manila envelope addressed to me in an unfamiliar hand, with no return address. Of course, my heart jumped into the throat and I more or less threw the rest of the mail in my excitement to open it—I couldn't help getting my hopes up and, thankfully, I wasn't disappointed.

They were Amber's senior pictures, and I sunk low into the couch, feeling tears prick the backs of my eyes as I pulled them from the manila envelope with shaking hands.

There was an 8x10 with my beautiful little girl—a woman now, really—in a white sun dress of eyelet lace, on a brown porch swing, with trees and grass around her. Her blonde hair had been curled, and they fell around her bright eyes and dimpled cheeks with an eloquence that left me completely breathless. Her left hand held the old, thick chain, her right rested on her lap as she bent forward, a laugh frozen on sweetly pink lips. It looked like an honest laugh, not a pose, and I wondered what was amusing her.

…It was good, that she was so happy.

There were two 5x7's—one vertical, with her in a long, yellow dress… I wondered if it had been her prom dress. It seemed formal enough. It wasn't poofy, but long and slender, making her look so much taller than I would have guessed… this smile was fixed… posed… but still beautiful. Her hair was wound up behind her head elegantly, but simply.

The second was her in jeans and pink converse high tops, her hair long and straight, hands plunged deeply into the pocket at the front of the bright blue, oversized UCLA sweatshirt she was wearing. …I wondered if this was for me, of if that was where she was going to school… I doubted that she could safely send something that would be so revealing about her personal life, but the idea of my baby at my alma mater... She smiled here too, but it seemed subtler; a sneaky, side-of-your-eyes kind of smile, and I felt like it was personal.

Following this intuition, I flipped the picture over, and there, in the unfamiliar scrawl, beside a curvy, messily drawn heart—"For my daddy." I sniffled and wiped at my face, unaware until this moment that I had been crying. I set her pictures down delicately, rubbing my face in agitation, not wanting my tears to ruin them.

There were seven others—three 4x6's, and four wallets. They were similar to the first few… same clothes or same setting, same beautiful young woman who, miraculously, still called me daddy. …She still loved me.

I chose two—the UCLA and the swing picture, with her laughter—to put in my wallet, and then hurried out to the store, even though I'd just come off what had felt like the longest shift of my life, to purchase new frames for my new pictures… for my baby.

And then, I called Sara, because I felt guilty about the diner and about how far we'd drifted since she'd come to Vegas. We hadn't talked daily, when she lived in San Francisco, but weekly, at least.

We didn't talk about the breakfast… we didn't talk about Warrick, or Greg, or all the problems we had when together and after we broke up. I didn't get mad or feel hurt when she called me 'Grissom,' which must be mostly habitual to her, now, and she didn't comment or make a snide remark when Warrick did come up in conversation. We talked about work, but not our coworkers, unless necessary. We talked about Kelly and Eric and Joey, but not about the night in Seattle… we talked about Stevie, but not the Christmas in which she'd given me the terrarium. And when we hung up, both of us needing to get some sleep before work that night—though, knowing Sara, she probably wouldn't sleep at all—I felt really good… my chest felt fuller and lighter.

I put her UCLA picture up on the nightstand in my bedroom, and watched it as I drifted off to sleep. This young woman… she seemed happy… healthy… well-adjusted. Her skin and hair and teeth looked bright and shining, which eased my mind on the whole drug-use issue… for the most part. A father never stops worrying, really, does he? And, as I had noted a hundred times before, she was still too beautiful for her own good.

I slept deeply, undisturbed, because for the first time in what seemed like a long time, I was not simply enduring—I felt genuinely happy. And maybe… just maybe… if she still remembered me, and loved me, and clearly had my address… maybe I would have my baby back soon. She was 18 in April, graduating in May or June… maybe I would get a visit, or... hell, a phone call telling me where to visit. Something… anything…

Maybe.


	76. Brenda

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So I struggled with this chapter, and it's way longer than most, but I don't know that there's anything I'm willing to cut. I wasn't going to reveal to you lovely readers for a while why Sara's mom finally snapped, but... it seemed right. :)

Reviews are wonderful, thanks to all my faithful readers and reviewers, and as always, I'll try to update more regularly (and also update my others... I have a new idea floating in my head, but I've told myself I'm not allowed to write any of it until I finish Consequences, Baby sooo hopefully that will give me some motivation!).

Also, I posted this in a hurry, so I didn't proof-read. Sorry. :(

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Chapter 16: Barbara

It was my night off... I hated nights off.

But Grissom had insisted that I take time off, once he realized that I hadn't had a night off since I'd started, either being called in or coming in to finish a case when I was scheduled to be off. It might also have had something to do with the phone call the previous week. It had been rather unexpected, and so I was flustered and not thinking clearly… and admitted too readily that I hadn't been sleeping.

But really, he'd known for years that sleep was at times a stretch for me. He didn't sound surprised, even, just concerned. And I was so happy that we might be friends again, might be speaking outside of the lab again, that I couldn't be upset at my unintentional revelation.

So here I was, stuck on my couch in my lonely apartment, a bottle of beer on the coffee table in front of me, open but full. I had taken a single drink upon twisting off the top, and hadn't touched it in the hour since. The worst part of having a night off is just that—it's nighttime. Your body won't let you sleep, but unless you want to go get trashed at a club or gamble the night away in the clock-free casinos, there's not much to do but watch infomercials, reread old novels, and listen to the police scanner.

I had called Kelly earlier—we'd talked for a couple hours, catching up. She berated me for being so unreachable, but then, we worked opposite schedules. Joey had grown so much since I'd last seen him, she told me, talking endlessly about his daycare and how much he was talking and how Eric had already bought him a little tee ball set. She talked about her kids, and her art, and I found myself listening happily, tears in my eyes.

Her life was beautiful, and happy, and I honestly wasn't bitter. I was envious, yes, but not spitefully so. I was honestly happy for her.

But it was difficult to listen to, which prevented me from focusing on any book I tried… which left the scanner. After a few hours, I dragged the thing into the bathroom and ran myself a bath. I hadn't had a hot bath in a long time, as I hadn't had a day off and didn't particularly like the idea of soaking in whatever I had brought back from my crime scenes. But I hadn't been near a dead body since my last shower, so I figured it was alright.

Surprisingly, the hot water soothed me to the point that my eyes were drooping. I was exhausted, but ever since the diner, I'd been having the same nightmare over and over—Greg had told Grissom that he was the one I'd slept with, and the look on his face made it immensely clear that there was no possible forgiveness for my great lie… no future for us. Because in truth, I hadn't given up hoping that my proximity alone would tempt him back to me, eventually. I don't know how I retained the hope, especially after hearing about Teri Miller, but then how else could I explain the softness in his tone when he said my name?

It was different than when he said any of the guys names, and even different from the way he said 'Catherine.'

I shook my head, feeling a strand of hair fall from the knot I'd wrapped it up in, to keep my hair dry. I didn't want to have to tame my curls again tonight. When my eyes drooped again, I shook my head and sat up a little straighter. Being tired didn't make sleep acceptable… I couldn't stand losing him again, in a dream or otherwise. I rose out of the tub, slowly, thinking that I'd have to camp out on the couch because my bed would be far too tempting, when a call came over the scanner, requesting police for a 419.

If it were a slow night, Grissom would be mad if I went in to work. But then, if it were busy, he would just be grateful… and there was no chance that I would fall asleep at a scene. I hesitated in the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my thin frame, and then turned the volume up and moved to my bedroom. I would begin dressing, and wait for more information.

I hadn't even finished toweling off before I heard a request for back up, EMTs, and CSIs. It sounded serious, so I dressed in real clothing, rather than pajamas, and let my hair fall around my shoulders, grateful that I'd kept it dry. I really needed to work right now.

I was slipping on shoes as the scanner announced that it was a confirmed quadruple 419, with two possibly hurt. I breathed a deep sigh of relief, switched it off, and hurried out to my car. A big crime like this was very public, so I knew Grissom would be on it, whether he'd had another case tonight or not. When we were getting along, I always looked forward to working with him. …Always.

It was a short drive, and by avoiding the strip, traffic was manageable. It was less than fifteen minutes from leaving my apartment that I arrived on the scene, slipping out of my vehicle and flashing my credentials to the officers guarding the crime scene tape. They smiled—we knew each other by sight, although I didn't know either of their names and I was fairly certain they didn't know mine. There were other officers contaminating the crime scene by puking in the bushes outside the house, but I was torn between correcting them and getting inside as fast as possible—it reminded me of the day my father died, which was a rather unpleasant memory, all in all.

The latter impulse won out, and I hurried inside, moving along the walls and following his voice up the stairs in time to hear his note-taker about to be sick.

"I got it. Go get some fresh air." I pulled the clipboard from his already clammy fingers and turned my gaze to Grissom. He was watching me intently, the question in his eyes. "I heard on the scanner. Quadruple. Figured you might need a hand."

His eyes tell me that he's grateful, but his words are concerned. "You never sleep, do you?"

I shake my head, not meeting his gaze, but keep my voice soft—there's no reason for us to fight.

"No."

I glance at him, and there's a moment in which our gazes are locked, and then he breaks it, looking around himself. Which is when I notice the blood swirl on the wall. Was it a cult? An imitation? I ask Grissom, because if anyone could tell at a glance, it would be him. He shakes his head. Even he doesn't know why anyone would do this.

We finished the walkthrough, and I was beginning to get excited. Obviously I hated the death of it all, but if I refused to think about the people and just did my job, a case like this could keep me awake and therefore nightmare-free for several days, just to process. The only moment I had stuttered had been in the master bedroom—the mother had been killed in her sleep, and in a way that was both crazy and yet seemed to make perfect sense, I could feel her there. Grissom could too—I saw it in the set of his shoulders as soon as we entered. So when he asked, "Do you feel this?" I didn't have to ask what he meant.

I nodded. "Her soul's still in the room."

He was in full work mode when we exited the home, directing people right and left and calling the entire shift to this scene to help. I didn't know if it had been a slow night or not, so I wasn't sure whether this request was extreme or not… but considering the line of press already congregating outside the crime scene tape, it probably wasn't. The sheriff would be on his ass for days.

He sent me to blow up the pictures I'd made, and alert the lab that, as far as we were concerned, this crime scene was the only one in Vegas tonight. I understood this—in truth, it was a horrible scene… two dead little boys, the daughters lucky as hell to have survived… a mother killed while sleeping, the father taken down in an effort to protect his youngest daughter… and Gi—Grissom had always told me he had a hard time with dead kids. But then, nobody found the job easy when it came to children. Still, his tone was so professional and commanding and in-control, that I didn't hesitate a moment.

"Yes, sir." Everything else could wait. This was the only crime in Vegas.

By the time I returned from the lab, Grissom was arguing with the sheriff and the duties seemed to have been distributed already, although there was certainly more than enough to go around. Nick and Warrick were doing the perimeter, Catherine was inside… but surely, on a quadruple, it wasn't overkill to have three people inside. I waited for him, and it didn't take long. …That wouldn't make the sheriff happy.

"You want me inside?"

"I need you to transport the little girl to the police department. Brass is waiting for you."

My temper flared. "You're kidding me, right? I'm a taxi service on the biggest case of the year?!"

He didn't seem impressed. He pursed his lips and gave me a look of barely concealed exasperation. "Sara… I need one of _us_ with that little girl."

And he walked away, just like that.

The entire ride over to PD, I played that sentence over and over in my mind. Who, exactly, had he meant by _us_? Did he need one of the team with her, because then it should be Warrick—he'd been the last to be promoted. Or Catherine—she was the mother, wasn't she? Hell, Nick was nurturing as anything. …Or had he meant us as in one of the two of us? …Then, of course, he couldn't leave, but…

But what the hell did _that_ mean, if he wanted one of the two of us? Why? What did I possess that the others didn't? …No, he must have meant one of the team… in which case, it shouldn't be me. I'd come in on my night off!

I was in this same temper when I reached PD—I held back only long enough to get the girl a piece of paper and crayons, and then I didn't hesitate to tell Brass that I thought Catherine ought to be playing babysitter, rather than me. He chuckled and made excuses—for some reason, he seemed to like me a lot, despite the frequent disagreements he had with Warrick and Grissom—and I was left to now escort Brenda to the hospital to meet with her social worker. …Which was great, because I just love social workers.

Ugh.

She scribbled out her picture when I told her it was pretty, and knocked everything from the table in the sweep of her little arm when I asked if she wanted to go for a ride. …I wasn't mad at her. My heart went out to her—poor little girl had lost almost her entire family in a single night. No, I was mad at Grissom. I wasn't good with kids, so why on earth would he send me with Brenda. Clearly I was only upsetting her further.

I tried to talk to her in the car—of course, she didn't speak…. didn't even react. Once at the hospital, she was taken to get checked over more thoroughly than the paramedics had done, and I was joined ten minutes later by her social worker. The woman was kind when she introduced herself and took a seat next to me, but she also had a certain demeanor, like she was not only all business but all control.

I knew this type of person, and I braced myself for the confrontation that was to come, because I never enjoyed confrontation, really, I just… had too little control over my temper to avoid it, more often than not. And when Brenda came out, apparently in need of a psych evaluation, it started.

"Thanks, I'll take it from here," she said, treating me exactly like the taxi driver I had complained of being only an hour or so previously.

"What… What's the… head exam for?" I sounded like I was one of those people who thought anyone who talked to a psychiatrist or psychologist was crazy. …I wasn't, but I'd spent too much of my life around shrinks to trust them implicitly.

"I said, I'll take it from here." Like I had a hearing problem? I took a quick, calming breath.

"Look, …if there's any… forensic evidence found… during this exam, I need to be there."

"It's already going to be tense…" the woman was winding up, but Brenda was already moving over to me. "Go back to your crime lab, I'll keep you posted."

He little hand slipped behind me, clutching onto my shirt, tugging gently. A glance at her showed the first flicker of genuine emotion I'd seen on her—fear. And I knew, even if I didn't need to stay with her for any particular reason, I wouldn't leave her with that look in her eyes.

"It's okay, Brenda. I'm not leaving you." I said the last part to the woman, who sighed her frustrated at me, but the little girl pressed against my side was far more important. She needed me.

I took a seat then, and Brenda climbed into my lap, but still chose not to speak to me. After a moment, her eyes became distant again, and she stopped reacting to things around her. I knew this reaction well—it perfectly matched the way my mother had looked after she killed my father. She'd backed away in horror, covered her face with her bloodied hands, and slid to the floor, back to the corner of the kitchen cupboards and the wall, sobbing. And when the sobs stilled, she was no longer my mother… she wasn't anything. Her eyes, her expression… they were both blank. And I huddled beneath the kitchen table in my tattered nightgown, afraid of my dead father and afraid of my empty mother.

The psych evaluation was basic and short—because Brenda didn't move or react or even look at the man. As he was winding down, I realized something—and quickly wrote on the piece of paper that was still blank before me, the seven-letter word that she had spoken to Grissom… the only word she'd spoken all night.

The man looked down at it with curiosity, and back to Brenda, whose eyes had not flickered ever remotely when I'd moved from my place beside her to lean over the table and slide the paper to him.

"Brenda?" Nothing.

"…Buffalo."

Something in her snapped, in that moment. She was kicking, screaming, flailing her arms. She leapt to her feet and threw the chair in which she'd been sitting as far as she could—only a few feet, but the act itself was still frightening. She pushed at the table, threw anything her hands could grasp at the man, and then dissolved into tears, her head in my lap.

The brilliant doctor that he was said she was in a catatonic state induced by trauma, and that he wanted to keep her at the hospital for observations. …I wondered exactly what he would be observing, since thus far, he hadn't told me anything that wasn't already obvious. Next he'd be pointing out that she had blonde hair, or that she was a girl. Instead of telling me about her catatonia, maybe he should be helping me figure out why the word buffalo upset her so much… or maybe he should be making Brenda… not catatonic. _That_, I would find helpful.

When she fell asleep, I headed back to the crime lab. I needed to catch up with the others, see what they'd found. Brenda needed a little rest, and I could hardly determine exactly what had happened to her without an idea of the direction the case was taking. Which, I think, should be rather obvious. Exactly what could I do without a lead?

Apparently, this didn't occur to Grissom. I moved into the break room, where everyone was seated, and grabbed myself a quick bite as well, as this would probably be my only chance to eat tonight. I slid into a seat, figuring out what was suspected so far—other than what I'd already heard from Greg as I walked through the lab—and then, for some reason, was confronted, after I told Grissom that Brenda had freaked out at the mention of the word buffalo.

"And… what are you doing about it now?" He asked, in his best condescending tone. Catherine's expression—eyebrows raised as if to question whether I should have been trusted with something so important was the last straw.

"…Going back to the girl. …I left her in the car."

Ah, and there it was. The pair of them looking alarmed. It took all my self control to keep a straight face and not roll my eyes at them.

"The windows are cracked." The silence intensified, their eyes wide, and though I was angry about the way the entire night had played out—this was just the cherry on top—I couldn't help but laugh a little, giving him my best condescending expression too. "Give me a little credit. She's at the hospital."

I got up, flashing a grin at Nick and Warrick, who were struggling to control their laughter, and completely ignoring a still slack-jawed Catherine and Grissom. If I didn't love him so much, I would think they deserved each other.

I stayed with her the rest of the night, while she slept, and into the next day. I tried to get her to talk, and she wouldn't… and so I observed at her shrink tried a myriad of different ways to get her to communicate. When my phone rang, and it was Grissom, I was expecting him to be upset I hadn't yet returned to the lab or gone home. Somehow, though, he knew I was still with Brenda—and wanted me to look for signs of sexual abuse, although there had been no overt signs…

The ultraviolet pictures revealed bruises across her shoulders, and a rape kit came back—there was semen present, although it had mostly deteriorated, but the bruising indicated rape. I wanted to be violently ill—her father had raped her and, once Grissom spoke to Tina, it became clear that she was not the younger sister, but the child of Tina and their father.

At which point I was ill, because if my mother hadn't snapped and killed my father when she saw… I could have been just like Tina. I could have had a Brenda of my own. And though I struggled to not blame my mother for killing my father—because I would never have gone to foster homes if she hadn't—there was not a single part of me that could blame Tina. …I would have done exactly the same thing.

I held Brenda's hand, not knowing what to say, because I was certain it was her father's actions in life, not his death, which had done the most damage, and because we understood that particular kind of pain more fully than anyone ought to.


	77. Breaking Bread

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: So I don't know how many people are still reading this, but Sarafly has asked me more than once for an update, as have a few others. Thank you, so much, for not giving up on this one, even when I got distracted. I know this chapter isn't super eventful, but I wanted them to have some small, personal moments in the first season. :)

Let me know what you think! I don't have any new stories in my head just now, so hopefully, if people are still interested, I'll update this one more frequently. :) Thanks!

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Chapter 17: Breaking Bread

Sara didn't tell me as much, but I knew that she'd hardly left the little girl's side since our little confrontation in the break room… which I had played over and over in my head since it had happened, wondering at my own actions and her response to them. I especially didn't like how easily Warrick and Nick related to her… no, not how they related to her, but that… when the team was divided in our response to a situation, it seemed to be the young three against… well, Catherine and I. It made me feel… old. The men who looked up to me saw her as an equal.

But when the case had been solved and I'd arrived at the hospital to see Brenda taken into foster care, pending her mother/sister's trial, I knew that Sara hadn't even been home since the case started—that she'd probably slept at the girl's side. Brenda glanced at the woman who took her hand gently but sternly, and pulled herself away, running to hug Sara tightly. She released her and went back to her social worker when the abrasive woman cleared her throat, and Sara blinked the tears from her eyes rapidly.

I waited a moment, until Brenda was out of sight, and then turned to Sara, who looked miserable, her eyes red, her arms crossed over her chest, her jaw set. I placed a gentle hand to her shoulder, willing myself to disregard how good it felt to touch her. "Come on, honey…" The endearment slipped, but it felt like she needed it… and she didn't argue, but let me guide her out of the hospital and into my own vehicle, leaving hers behind.

I took her to the first diner I could find, ordered for the both of us as soon as we sat down, and then turned my attention to her. She was almost as taciturn at the little girl, and I searched for a way to break the silence… to get her to open up and talk, because it was what she needed, but it was never what she would choose for herself. Except for today, apparently.

"I would've adopted her."

I look up from my coffee cup, trying to figure out what she's saying—breathless over the fact that she might still trust me. "You… what?"

She sniffled. "She just… went into foster care. I… I hated foster care. I would have taken her, if I… if I thought there was any chance they'd let me."

"…You don't think they would?"

She let out a breath. "Single woman, under the age of thirty, able to have children herself, who works the night shift, is new to the city and therefore has no close friends other than the night shift, and no family to serve as a support system. Trust issues, a foster care child herself, a slew of failed relationships, and the fear of owning a pet because she'd rather stay at work than go home nine time out of ten… I wouldn't let me have a kid either."

I didn't know how to respond to this and pursed my lips, letting my head fall back slowly to survey her through half-closed lids. "I… didn't know you wanted children."

She shrugs a little. "Growing up, I didn't. In college I was… too focused to really… even think about it. After… after Joey was born, looking at him, I…" She looks down. The food arrives at that moment and she grabs onto it like a life line, eating as though she's ravenous, although I know Sara to eat little when she's distraught. I feel like she doesn't feel hungry, but is devouring what's placed before her because it means she doesn't have to talk to me about this…

So I change the subject, not wanting her to feel sick, and for a brief twenty minutes it's almost like old times. The playful banter isn't there, because neither of our hearts are in it, but it's comfortable whether we speak or sit in silence, and that's enough. I drove her back to her vehicle in the hospital parking lot and she looked up at the large building, shuddered slightly, and glanced at me again—her eyes looked different, now. When we had left, they had been red-rimmed and overflowing with emotion… now they were clear and dry and expressionless. It sent shivers up and down my arms, but then she was whispering a soft thank you and slipping from my car.

I watched her drive away, and returned home myself, in desperate need of a shower and sleep… but feeling as though sleep would not come easily. The case had upset me too—I hated to see children hurt—and the idea of Sara adopting a child instead of having babies with me, like I'd imagined… With a quiet sort of anguish I pulled down a bottle of scotch and drank a few doubles, until I could feel the effect taking hold… and then I moved to the bedroom, stripped down, set my alarm, and crawled into bed, simply waiting for the alcohol to catch up with me and drag me into nothingness.

The following night, Sara was quiet. Nick and Warrick were betting on something or other—for some reason, they'd become super competitive in the last week or so. My instinct told me that they had a young woman in their midst who seemed more attainable that Catherine—never been married, didn't have a kid, or a history, as far as they knew… didn't happen to have been a stripper before becoming a CSI—but I didn't like the idea that they were competing for her attention, so I disregarded it. It annoyed me more than I would have liked, but that was about it.

I handed out assignments—I gave Sara a solo, and made sure it was easy enough that she could handle it alone but difficult enough that she wouldn't realize I was worried about taking it easy on her. I put Nick and Catherine on a 419, mostly because I wanted to separate my testosterone-driven young colleagues for a while, at least, and Warrick and I went to investigate a missing person report. The up-side, of course, was that there was very little evidence to collect. We were back in the lab in just under three hours, Warrick waiting on evidence and going through timelines, and me heading back to my office and the mountains of paperwork that I had been buried under since I became a supervisor.

Clearly, my talents were being put to their very best use.

When I took a coffee break, I found the entire team taking a lunch break—Warrick was waiting of trace, Catherine and Nick had just gotten back and turned in their evidence, and Sara's B&E had yielded nothing but a few smudged partials. Since no one was hurt and the amount stolen was under a hundred dollars, it was fairly low priority. She wouldn't be getting her fingerprint evidence back any time tonight.

Instead, she had stopped for sandwiches for the team—very kind of her—and they were seated around, laughing and eating. I paused in the doorway, taking in a few details in a matter of moments. Catherine had a turkey club—her regular. And as far as I knew, she and Sara didn't go out to eat unless the entire team was going. Had she picked that detail up from team breakfasts? What had Catherine ordered?

She bought Warrick a Rueben, which I knew to be a personal favorite. Were they on better terms, now? I'd overheard she and Nick and Greg talking about grabbing food after shift… Was Warrick now a part of these rendezvous? Maybe he and Nick really were competing for her attention.

Sara herself had what looked like ham and turkey—the same thing she'd eaten at the deli, that same day I'd met her. For a single, flickering moment, I was back in that booth across from her, and she was grinning seductively and cheekily, somehow simultaneously, telling me she liked sex on the beach. …The one time we had, on the beach… she'd been so goddamned beautiful in the moonlight, her hair fanned out against the sand…

I shook myself from these memories, focusing back on the details. Because they said more about Sara than they did about their recipients. Nick had a barbeque pulled pork—he was exclaiming that it made him think of his mother's home cooking and how much he wished he could make it home for Thanksgiving this year. I moved into the room, hesitantly, as all of a sudden my entire team was exchanging holiday plans. Catherine, Lindsey, and her mother were all going to her sister's. Warrick was spending it with grandma, as always. Nick and Sara would be here—they'd both volunteered to work so others could have it off.

Sara glanced at me. There were two subs in the center of the table. I sat down and she snatched them up, lifting each to her nose in turn, wrinkling it at the second one and handing me instead the first. "Italian on sourdough. …Spells way better than Greg's spicy chicken with jalapenos." Her nose wrinkled again and Nick continued to spout off about Texas home cooking and the importance of spice in certain dishes—but I met her eyes, mouthing a simple "Thank you."

She beamed under such minimal appreciation, and I felt guilty. Maybe I didn't praise Sara enough… maybe I hadn't paid enough attention to her, since she'd moved here. I'd been trying to keep a professional distance… set a standard of detachment… but maybe I'd pushed it too far. She shouldn't look so relieved that I'd thanked her for buying me lunch. …For remembering little preferences, I realized, as I unwrapped the sandwich. Mayo, no mustard… extra black olives. Things that shouldn't really matter, but they did.

I vowed to try to repair what I'd done to our friendship. Just because I was her boss and former lover didn't mean that I couldn't be her friend now, right? …Right?


	78. Praise

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I had no idea so many people still cared about this one! :) It makes me happy--Destiny is my baby, as I've said about a hundred times.

For those who asked, I'm sticking to cannon and the series as closely as possible. If I make a mistake, please correct me.

Kathy--I have it in my head that this this will be the one I'll work on right now, but if you don't want to reread it until I'm actually sure... give me a week. If I'm still updating close to daily, then you can reread it. I don't want you to go through all those chapters and then I stop posting. ...That would be very like me. :)

Also, this is kind of creepy, but I saw a commercial for Dunkin' Donuts today and thought of you. :) (...that was the place you like iced coffee from, yes?) ...I know. Creepy. I promise I'm not though! ...I just love my reviews. A little too much.

Enjoy! :)

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Chapter 18: Praise

Grissom was…different. He seemed like he was trying more.

He took me out to a diner after Brenda… he looked… truly grateful when I'd brought him a sandwich… he noticed when one of my tires was low and followed me to a gas station, just to make sure I'd make it. When I'd pulled in and parked, I'd expected him to wave and drive away… but instead, he parked beside me, filled it up, checked the pressure, and even made us sit for a minute to make sure that it wasn't going flat on me.

So when he asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat before shift, I didn't think anything of it. Maybe a month ago, I would have jumped at the idea of a date… but now, it was understood that we shared meals, and they weren't dates. …For them to be dates, one of us would have to distinguish them as such… and we didn't.

And when he called to cancel, saying he'd been called in early on something important, but he should be in the lab by the start of shift, I was disappointed… but not crushed. I had also learned, since moving to Vegas, that Grissom's life was his work. It was no wonder he hadn't been willing to sacrifice it for me—I was the woman who slept with other men when his desire to spend the holidays struck me as threatening… and his work, was everything.

So I expected something interesting when I came in for shift, anxiously awaiting his arrival. Maybe he'd even have me work it with him—he liked to work with me… the way our minds worked was in sync, and it was more than easy to slip into an easy back and forth, bouncing ideas and evidence back and forth between us. When I entered the break room, Nick and Warrick were playing their football game—dream cast something or other… The two of them and Greg spent far too much time discussing it over breakfast.

I hardly had time to get settled and think about whether I wanted another cup of coffee after all I'd consumed prior to coming in, when Catherine stuck her head in the door—"Sara—Grissom called, he said the two of us should wait in his office…"

I beamed. I was on whatever exciting case this was—and with three of us working it, it had to be important. Catherine laughed and shook her head as I eagerly sprang from my chair, waving goodbye to the men and falling into step beside her. We didn't speak, because there was very little the two of us shared… but once we reached his office and had nothing to do but stand and wait… conversation feel obligatory.

I sighed. "So, uh… do you know what he's got for us?"

She smiled a bland smile, like she too pull the pull of social norms for conversation to occur, but also knew we had very little to talk about… except Grissom. But as a rule, the two of us _didn't_ talk about Grissom. …Maybe that was just my rule, I don't know. "No idea…" Her eyes flickered around the room, lingering on the doorway and then his desk. "I'll bet he's got something about it around here though…"

She made her way over to his desk, and for a moment I lamented my inability to walk quite the way Catherine did. …Her steps were self-assured, the sway of her hips was simultaneously feminine and powerful. When Catherine walked—when Catherine just moved—you noticed. …So I guess I could see why Grissom might find her attractive. I mean, she rubs me the wrong way but… it's different, for women.

She pulled up a stack of papers and despite myself, I was curious. I moved over, glancing at them, but as far as I could tell they were case notes from day shift. Apparently they'd had a bug-riddled body that he'd been unable to come in to consult on, so he was double-checking their evidence before the D.A. would file charges. …When had Grissom been unable to come in?

"Okay, we're going off the board tonight." I turned, feeling guilty for looking through his papers, though Catherine seemed profoundly unconcerned.

"Off the board?" I asked casually, to cover said guilt.

"The ones that got away," Catherine explained, glancing at it the large cork board on his wall that looked like a fish. "Fish." She added, when I didn't seem to get it right away.

"Ohhh, I missed that one…"

Grissom, however, was all business. "First victim—Royce Harmon. About three months ago, Brass and I found this guy dead in his own bathtub, but his "suicide" was staged. I think the killer has killed again." He passed me the photos of the crime; clearly I was the only one out of the loop on this. "Photos of tonight's victim: Stuart Rampler." He handed Catherine the pictures of the newer scene. "Play the 'pick six things that are different' game—Bet you lose."

Catherine leaned over to glance at the more older pictures and I glanced up at Grissom, giving him a smirk. He had such an eccentric way of speaking. "This guy's good."

"Not good—exceptional. Print examiner lifted a thumbprint off the mini-recorder near the tub of our first victim. The print came back this." She glanced around and then walked behind, producing from a shelf a rubber hand. Have I mentioned that I love Grissom's office? I love his office. I raised my eyebrow anyway—loving his eccentricities was not part of the case—instead inspecting the fingerprints on the hand. Grissom spoke up.

"The killer purchased one of these rubber hands, laced the fingertips with cooking spray, and proceeded to place false prints all around the crime scene."

"This guy is good," I repeated, unwilling to change my adjective to suit Catherine's hyperbole. "Whose prints are these?"

"Some guy who works in a warehouse making Halloween paraphernalia. Scary masks, air-brushed tombstones, rubber hands. Turns out he used his own hand for the mold."

"So what do we do?" Catherine asks, interrupting my quirky genius in his element.

He brushed it off. He was used to it. "We split up. You and I go to the coroner. Sara, you go to the hotel. Dust every inch of that bathroom. Here…Use this." He reached moved over to a shelf and, once again, out of nowhere, produced a container of the red print dust he'd given me for Christmas the year Jim and Marlene died. He hands it to me, launching into an explanation. "Red Creeper. My own concoction."

"Wow." I say, for Catherine's benefit, and perhaps in part to make him feel guilty. I smirked and kept my eyes on the container. He'd never told me the name before, but I still had the small container he'd given me in my kit. It bothered me that he acted as if this were the first time I'd be seeing it… but I was excited to use it. I hadn't had authorization to use it at any other crime scene, though I doubt I would have anyway… it had been a gift.

"Well, serious case, serious print powder." He explains, unnecessarily, disregarding all my subtext entirely. "Be thorough. Don't take anything for granted." He instructed.

Unlike him, I address the subtext. He's telling me the level of trust he's put in me… He's telling me that there's a reason he sent me off solo and kept Catherine with him. "Yes, sir." I say softly, meaning the words fully, though in the past the title would have been meant to hurt. He had trusted me—I couldn't ask for more than that.

I was determined to find something, because Grissom was frustrated by this case. He had put his faith in me, in a case that was causing him no small amount of frustration, and no matter what he said, I did want to be his star pupil, just like in the second week of the conference at which we'd met. I wanted him to be impressed with me. Unfortunately, the bathroom was spotless… not even Red Creeper could help me now—the only thing I found was exactly what he wanted me to find. An upside down stamp on a stack of the victim's letters.

Back at the lab, Grissom and Catherine were still gone. I called to tell them about the stamp, but they were heading to see someone named 'Disco,' so I didn't keep them. I brought the mail to Greg, to test the DNA of the lickers. He teased me playfully while we waited for the results, and then they came in—the right-side up ones were from our victim, Stuart Rampler. The upside-down one… unknown.

"He's toying with us." I muttered, frustrated… wondering what exactly the stamps meant.

"Who?" asked Greg, glancing around as if to find the culprit with his nose pressed to the glass of the DNA lab.

"Anonymous." I answered, getting up and moving swiftly from his lab.

I figured I'd look into details about the victims. True, it wasn't a serial until there were three victims, but it was the beginning of a serial… and serials worked in patterns. They had systems… M.O.s. And if I was right about this killer—if he was sending messages via postage stamps—then all of this was to send a message. The victims were important.

The victims were white, single males in their forties… nothing else stood out to me, until I was glancing over photographs of Royce's personal effects. His wallet, with a license that listed, of course, his date of birth… it was Grissom's birthday, but 1958 rather than 1956. I doubt I would have noticed it if it hadn't been Grissom's birthday… but it stood out to me, so I checked Stuart's information. He was the same, but it was 1957.

I heard Grissom and Catherine down the hall, entering his office, and I jumped to my feet. This was important. "I did some comparative digging on both victims—" I rattled off the details, trying desperately to ignore the fact that Catherine was planted firmly on top of Grissom's desk. If I sat on his desk, he'd say 'Sara…' with that you-know-better tone. "…and, both have the same birthdays."

I glanced at Grissom. There was little to no chance the killer knew his birthday, so I didn't mention out loud that it was his. He could choose to share it with Catherine if he wanted to… and apparently, he didn't. "Royce Harmon, born August 17, 1958. Stuart Rampler, born August 17, 1957. One year apart."

Catherine started speaking—a backwards pattern, he was telling us to look backwards—but for a moment I knew that neither of us really heard her. Gil had met my gaze, and we communicated the silent knowledge of his birthday.

"…the postage stamp was upside down…" She finished, glancing at me for conformation.

"Yeah…" I added, grateful I'd been at least half listening. Grissom turns away from me as I speak, and the spell of the moment is broken.

"Maybe he's telling us… In order to go forward, go back. Sara, go back one more year—August 17, 1956. See if anything pops up with the same M.O." Other than your birthday?

"I'm gone." I nodded, sweeping from the room. I could forgive him the blonde perched on his paperwork, because I clearly knew the man better than she did… and his eyes had held mine, even when she was speaking… even when she was speaking about an elusive potential serial killer who had so far stumped him.

From Gil Grissom, there was no higher praise.


	79. Out of the Mist

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: So I've been struggling with this one--I'm crazy about sticking to details, and I think it was getting in the way. I was trying so hard to correctly portray the interactions in the episodes that I think I overdid it. I want to thank lalumieredelame especially, because I was kind of stuck in it. Your review gave me the push I needed to try to do this differently. :)

Let me know what you guys think! (I think this chapter should up the interesting factor, some.) Also, if you're reading but not reviewing, at least for this chapter leave me a review, even if it only says 'Hey, I'm reading' because I feel like not very many people are, but then my traffic says there are more. I just don't want to keep posting and give other stories less attention if only very few people are even interested.

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Chapter 19: Out of the Mist

I was walking up and down the strip. I was doing so, because I'd been riding the Manhattan Express since it opened, and thus far it hadn't helped. Probably because that was how I assuaged my conscience when I hadn't given justice to victims. And while I did feel this way—I had not given Royce Harmon or Stuart Rampler their justice—it wasn't that that was bothering me. Paul Millander had toyed with me through all of this. He'd made a fool of me… He'd been smarter than me.

How could I do my job if I could no longer outsmart the criminals?

So when the rollercoaster failed, I had half a mind to head over to Stratosphere tower, and ended up instead pacing the long strip, ignoring the constant snapping sound of people who lined the sidewalk and flicked cards advertising the baser attractions of Sin City to passersby. I had said it before, but it was still true. I liked the lights of Vegas.

And I liked the Bellagio fountains. They had only just been added recently, so they were still something of a novelty. So that was where I was headed, in the vaguest sense of the word. I was wandering more than heading anywhere. They played every fifteen minutes, to music, and I could honestly watch them for hours.

Silly, I know. I didn't care about gambling, I rarely drank and it was even rarer that I would do so in public, and I had never in my life paid for sex nor had any desire to. …But I honestly loved Vegas. I loved the extravagance and the lights and the spectacle of it all. I loved being able to visit Venice and Paris and New York and Rome and Egypt and Medieval England all on one street. I loved being able to ride gondolas and watch waterworks from the top of the Eiffel Tower and take in a pirate ship battle.

I think it says a lot, that I feel at home in a place where I walk alone, a native among tourists, still enamored with the splendor of it all. I'm lonely—I relate to a city more than to others around me. But like the somewhat mythic nature of my surroundings, out of the mist thrown up by the fountains as I approach, comes a vision of beauty and purpose and life.

Sara Sidle is leaning against a railing, alone, watching the fountains.

I don't know why I approach her—it it much more in my nature to turn and run away from anything that might be misconstrued as intimate. It was rather a relief when the Paul Millander case had made me cancel our planned meal together. I believed that neither of us considered it a date, but still… the possibility of misinterpreting the situation was always there, on both sides. But I must be really feeling my own loneliness and inadequacy right now, because I do.

I lean on the railing beside her, and after a moment she glances over at me in surprise, a slight smile crossing her lips. "You never took me here, when I visited."

I glance up at the spray, which I can tell is coming to an end because its accompanying music is as well. "They hadn't been built yet."She nods, silently, and I feel the need to elaborate. "I would have—I would have taken you to the top of the Eiffel Tower to watch it or… or we could have eaten at the restaurant, right there." I pointed to hotel behind the water—directly in the center were large, long windows where patrons could watch the fountains.

She sighed, softly, but I could still hear it. I was so attuned to her, now. "That would have been nice…"

I hesitate, and then I move a little closer, leaning against the railing right beside her. She clearly doesn't see this as an invasion of space, because she doesn't tense at my proximity. "…You did really good, on this case."

She clucks her tongue impatiently. "We didn't catch the guy. He played us."

I shake my head. "He played me. I told you we'd cleared him."

She frowns. "I didn't have to believe you. …Grissom, Greg told me about the fingerprint."

I blink in surprise. The fingerprint on the suicide tape had come back mine, under his thumb print. He was telling me he had me under his thumb—which was not nearly so worrying as how he'd gotten my print in the first place… or how Greg had known about it. If he knew, the lab knew. "How…"

"Mandy. She and Greg are… I wouldn't call it dating. They're going out to eat and making out."

My eyebrows rose. "I… had no idea."

She puckers her lips. "I didn't just get him in trouble, did I? They work in different labs… it isn't the same as two… CSIs… dating."

I shake my head. "No—you weren't talking to your boss, you were talking to a friend."

She smiles and nudges me gently. "I… I've really missed my friend."

I nod, looking at my hands. "I've missed you too, Sara."

There's a long silence, and then she looks at me. "…This Millander guy is making this all pretty personal. Do you… think he knows your birthday?"

I shake my head. "No. And even if he did… This is about him, not me. His past, his demons. The birthday thing is a coincidence, and the only reason he wanted me to know I was 'under his thumb' is because he needs me. Remember the ATM message? He wants justice—he needs me to figure this out, so he can have justice. I'm… not worried."

She looks up at me, her eyes intense, and I feel my breath catching in my throat, waiting on her words. I don't know what she wants to say, but I know it's important… I know that right now, I feel like my whole world hinges on it.

"Sara? … Sara Sidle?!"

The moment is gone as we both react to the unknown voice, standing up straighter and turning to look behind us, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. I don't find one, but clearly, she does.

"…Michael?"

I swallowed. The man who had loved Sara before me. He approached us, and though Sara looked surprised and a little uncertain, she did not hesitate to hug the man. He was younger than me, and better looking. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt under a gray jacket that did nothing to hide the defined shape of his muscle. He had not seemed nearly so threatening, two years ago, when I looked at the pictures Sara had of the pair of them in Boston. He had been in the past, even then, and I had been in her apartment, inspiring nothing short of hunger in her eyes.

But now… now I was the one who constantly pushed her away, telling her that I just couldn't take the leap to be with her again, putting sorrow only barely concealed in her brown irises. And he—appeared just like she had, out of the mists, a dashing reminder of what it felt like to be loved deeply by someone who would never turn her away. Because his eyes—the way he looked at her—told me as much in a moment. Even now, he wouldn't turn her away.

They pulled apart and Sara smiled—really smiled. Her face lit up. I hadn't seen it do so in reaction to anything but a particularly gruesome or interesting case in… I couldn't remember the last time. "What are you doing in Vegas?!"

He laughed. "I could ask you the same thing. This seems like the antithesis of a vacation spot for you—Did you get tired of surfing and sunbathing in San Francisco?"

She laughs happily, "No, actually… I live here now."

His eyebrows rose. "Wow. What are you doing—Did you stay with Forensics, or did you change your mind again?"

"No, I work at the Crime Lab here. Number two in the country." She boasted, and I felt proud. She was boasting about something that I was intrinsically linked to, in her mind. I felt a little less threatened.

He smiled. "I always knew you'd be amazing. …I'm sorry, am I… interrupting something?"

He glanced at me, and I didn't like the look of surprise that crossed Sara's features as she turned back to me. She had forgotten me in her excitement to greet this man. "Oh! Griss, I'm sorry. This is Michael Malone. Michael, this is Gil Grissom—He's… my friend and my boss." I smiled and offered a hand to shake, despite disliking that she felt the need to use both titles, rather than just the first.

"Nice to meet you."

"And you." He said, and I instantly disliked him—because he meant it. He genuinely was glad to meet someone in Sara's life, which meant he didn't see me as a threat. And it wasn't because he wasn't interested—his eyes had devoured her face when he'd first pulled away from the hug.

He glanced between us awkwardly, uncertain if he should take his leave, and Sara seemed uncertain too. I made it easy on them. "Well, Sara, I… I'll see you at work in a few hours, yeah?"

She looked a little surprised, but she didn't fight me on it. "…Yeah. I… I'll see you later, Griss."

I walked away from them, and it took everything in me not to turn back around. Hadn't I told her that I couldn't be with her? That I couldn't trust her to not hurt me again? …If 'Michael' could handle her secrets and her constant running and her soft brown hair and intense, passionate eyes and the deliciously long, sweet shape of her body…

…It didn't matter. I had told her to move on, and she had every right to.


	80. Reconnecting

Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: :) Thanks for all the reviews. Let me know what you think. I'm gonna go try to update New Beginnings before bed, but no promises (for those of you who read all my stories.)

Enjoy!

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Chapter 20: Reconnecting

"Sara? …Sara Sidle?!"

I turned from Grissom automatically, despite the moment we'd just been wrapped up in—perhaps the first candid conversation we'd had since I moved to Vegas—scanning the crowd. And there he was, looking even more attractive with the hint of age in his face.

"…Michael?"

I was running to hug him without a second thought. This man, despite the years it had been since we'd last spoken, had saved me in all kinds of ways. After… Miami… I would have fallen apart, if it hadn't been for him. Even if I had never loved him the way I loved Grissom… He was a man who would always, always mean the world to me.

I pulled back, taking in his appearance. The aging was minor—he had the hint of more lines around his eyes. His hair was still full and jet black, and his physique was every bit as impressive as it had been when he was thirty. I did some quick math—He was eleven years older than me, and I was twenty-eight. He was pushing forty… He didn't look forty. He looked hot.

We shared some brief incredulity at running into each other here, and were headed straight into a trip down memory lane when he asked, somewhat hesitantly, if he was interrupting something. Which had me spinning back to Grissom, feeling terrible. We'd been in the middle of the most intimate moment we'd shared in months, and I had honestly completely forgotten about him in the surprise of seeing Michael.

I introduced the men, understanding at I did that there might be a certain amount of tension in the interaction—Michael didn't know who Grissom was, but Grissom knew about Michael. He had taken one look at the man in the picture in my Berkeley apartment and declared how much the man had clearly loved me.

There's a moment, after they shake hands and exchange pleasantries, when we're all uncertain. Michael is waiting for me to indicate whether I'm in the middle of something with Grissom or whether I want to take the time to catch up with him. Grissom is waiting for me to dismiss Michael. At my look of uncertainty, he takes his leave of us and walks away before I can argue… although, in truth, I think I would have chosen Michael. I saw Grissom every day. I didn't run into long-lost friends every day.

We watched Grissom walk away, and Michael turned and looked at me, smiling softly. "You're still so damned young." He said, by way of greeting, and then I was laughing.

"Did you expect me to age more than a year to each of yours?"

He pulled me to his chest, a bubbling laugh echoing through his chest. "I honestly thought I'd never see you again. …Sara, I… I'm just so happy we ran into each other."

"Me too." I said, hugging him tighter and then pulling back. It just felt so good to be close to him again. Nick and Warrick and Greg were great—but I'd known Nick and Warrick less than a year, and Greg had never been the type of friend I confided in. Used for sex, got trashed with, flirted shamelessly with, sure… but Michael was different. Our relationship was the kind that can only be achieved through long, hard-earned knowledge of another person. He was a part of my past. The others just… weren't… yet.

He grinned—the playful grin I'd missed—and I felt his eyes all over my face. "You have time to grab a bite before you have to head in to work?"

"Absolutely."

He guided me back towards the entrance to the Bellagio, a hand falling to the small of my back to guide me. I wasn't sure what its presence there meant, exactly—I remembered vividly thinking I would always associate the action with him, but I didn't, anymore. Grissom liked to put his hand there too—especially if he was so wrapped up in a case while we were walking somewhere that he didn't pay attention to his hands. It was in his nature now, to touch me.

Once we were inside the noise level dropped a little and he glanced down at me. "Is it okay just to head to a buffet? I'd prefer to take you someplace nicer, but if you've got to be to work in an hour or so…?"

I shook my head. "No, that's probably best."

The buffet at the Bellagio was still one of the nicest I'd seen thus far in Vegas, and I ascertained from the rows of poles and ropes that a few hours earlier we would have had quite the wait. We were directed to a table and our host took our drink orders immediately so that we could get up to get food. He sighed, rising even though we'd both just sat down. "Dan is gonna kill me for this."

I laughed—Dan had been his best friend since high school. Unfortunately, even as a thirty year old man, he'd acted closer to my age than I had. He'd been fun, and he and Kelly had traded enough double entendres to make a porn star blush on an occasion or two, but he'd been a little tiring. Kelly was energetic in a way that made you feel invigorated just being around her… Dan sapped the energy from everyone around him.

"You're here with him? Is this some sort of glorified bachelor's trip to the City of Sin?"

He looked a little abashed as we moved over to take plates and move down the rows of food. "More or less. Although, it wasn't my idea… if that does anything to redeem me."

I smirked. "It sounds like the type of thing he would talk you into."

Conversation dwindled as we moved along the rows, until we had filled our plates and moved back to sitting down at the table that had our drinks waiting for us. I sighed happily, looking at him.

"You look great. …Tell me… everything."

He grinned. "Well… I went back to school, got my PhD in English Lit. I'm teaching at Harvard now." His smile softened, and he tilted his head. "Being there… I'm reminded of you all the time, Sara."

There was a slight sadness in his eyes that I didn't like to see. I glanced down at my food, picking up my fork. "You, uh…Still visit your parents during the summers?"

He nodded, slowly. "Yeah—I spent the whole summer there, this last time. It's part of the reason Dan felt the need for a 'man-cation.' My… mom is pretty sick."

I went from smirking at the word that was clearly Dan's invention—mancation—to frowning. "Oh no." Without thinking, I put my hand over his. "What is it?"

"Breast Cancer. …They managed to catch it pretty early, though, so… we're hopeful. It's just… been hard on all of us. And then…" He smiled, but the sadness remains. "She keeps telling me to stop dawdling and give her grandchild before she dies, which… doesn't help. At all."

I squeezed his hand. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be—right now, things look good." He squeezed back. "Tell me about you. …You're living in Vegas, at some big shot crime lab, huh?" He teased, and I allowed him to change the subject. If he needed it, who was I to force the issue?

I grinned. "Yeah, I am. I… work with some of the best criminalists in the country." I wanted to say something else… but what else did I have to tell? I wasn't going to talk about Grissom, and I wasn't going to talk about my mother. "Kelly's married, she has a two year old little boy. …She's teaching art in Seattle."

He smiles. "Wow—who would have guessed that she would be the one of the three of us to settle down?"

I tilt my head. "…What do you mean?"

He swallowed the bite in his mouth. "Oh, I… Sara, I meant no offense. I loved Kelly—you know that. I just meant… she seemed like she would like the single lifestyle more than… well, either of us."

I frown, knowing that Kelly has only ever slept with two men in her life, and is married to one, and that despite her avid drinking in college, she'd never taken it too far—she didn't drink at inappropriate times and she never drove. She was anything but a party girl. …But I also know that he doesn't mean anything by it, so I let it go, nodding.

He frowns. "What about here in Vegas? I mean, other than the job. …Tell me about your life."

I don't have anything to tell him, so I choose to tell him about the team. They're the friends I have, here, and the only real semblance of a life outside of the lab… even if they're not entirely 'outside' the lab. We finish eating and I glance at my watch.

"I'm really sorry, but I've got to run if I want to make it to the lab on time."

He smiles, leaving a tip on the table. "Let me walk you to your car…"

So we walk out again, his hand on my lower back again.

"How long are you in town for…?"

"We fly out the day after next… Did you want to get together again?"

I smile. "I'd like that, if Dan can spare you from your intense schedule of drinking and hopping from strip club to strip club…"

"Maybe you can make some suggestions for him." He teases. I roll my eyes.

"I don't really know much about the tourist or… party scene. Although…" My eyes lit up. "My team would know. Catherine used to be an exotic dancer, and Warrick would know the best places to gamble. Greg could hook you up to the party scene, and Nick… well, Nick's just fun." I chuckled. "Will you be conscious around seven or eight tomorrow morning? I bet I can talk them into grabbing breakfast to give some old friends some pointers on the best way to spend their last night in Vegas."

He frowned, a little, when I said 'old friends,' but he smiled through the rest of it. "I will be—I can't make any promises for Dan, but… I would love to meet the people who are important to you, Sara."

His words rang with a genuineness that I had forgotten. Michael was such a good man. I smiled and hugged him tightly when I got to my vehicle. "I'll give you a call tomorrow morning and let you know. …Did you have a cell phone, or should I just call the Bellagio and ask for a room number?"

He chuckled, and pulled out his wallet, writing his cell number on the back of a card advertising Cirque du Soleil and passed it to me. "If I don't answer this, we're room 1010. …Should be easy enough to remember."

I grinned. "Great. It was so good seeing you again…"

"You too. …Don't be a stranger, even if… breakfast doesn't work out. We… shouldn't wait another seven years to talk again."

I nodded, giving him yet another hug, and then climbing into my car and hurrying off to the lab. I was pushing it, but I probably wouldn't be late… as long as traffic wasn't too bad.


	81. Invitation

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) Hope you enjoy. Thanks for the reviews. More, please?

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Chapter 21: Invitation

Sara was late.

Nick and Warrick had turned off their game, Greg had taken his coffee and gone off to his lab, Catherine had abandoned her magazine, and even if I hadn't been sitting in the break room, anxiously tapping my pen against a crossword puzzle I simply couldn't focus on, I would have been down with assignments by now. …And I was often late for assignments.

I sighed, dropping the pen and picking up the slips. "Warrick, smash and grab. Catherine, you and I are taking a double in Henderson. Nick, when Sara gets here you—"

She rushed into the room, she cheeks slightly red, probably from running all the way here from her car. "I'm sorry. I'm here."

I leveled her with an unwavering gaze. What, exactly, had she been doing with Michael to make herself late? Sara cared about the job more than anything. …Or, at least, she used to. It took everything in me to keep my voice level and not overreact to this. "Nice of you to join us." I said, and I knew my voice was a little cold. Enough to draw more attention than I wanted—Catherine looked at me in surprise, and the guys looked between Sara and I, wondering what had inspired my tone. I cleared my throat. "You and Nick have got a DB at Caesar's Palace—suspicious circs."

Her lips were pursed. I knew she was angry with me. Sara had quite the temper, I had learned. "Great. Nick, you ready?"She didn't wait for him to answer, but swept from the room, and Nick's wide open expression was bewildered as he rose, shrugging his confusion to no one in particular, and followed her out of the break room.

Catherine, of course, had to ask. "So, uh… What was all of that about?"

I shake my head. "Nothing—Sara just needs to be here on time. Should we go?"

I too left the room without waiting for my partner, to the sound of her indignant huffing and Warrick's soft chuckle. He got to work alone tonight, and so would be spared all the drama. I suddenly wished I'd taken the solo case for myself. Catherine liked to ask questions…and we had a bit of a drive.

For some reason, though, she seemed to sense my unwillingness to talk about it, and the drive to Henderson was completed in silence. Although this was preferable to being questioned, it left me far too much silence to delve into my thoughts. The fact of the matter was that Sara had chosen the man over me. She had forgotten I was even there in her rush to embrace him, and she had chosen to stay and talk with him rather than calling me back, despite the intensity of the conversation we'd been involved in prior to him interrupting. Not only that, but she had been late, because she'd been with him.

What had she been doing, to keep her from making it to work on time?

I was preoccupied while processing. It looked like a murder-suicide, but it wasn't. There was a shoe print on the man's shirt that was inconsistent with any the couple owned, much less the pair she had on her feet. I also failed to notice the red fibers that were trapped in the wife's nose, just out of sight. Maybe I should be doing the smash and grab instead of Warrick—clearly, I wasn't on top of my game right now.

It took hours, and I was exhausted by the time we came back to the lab to log in evidence and distribute it to its respective labs for analysis. The only bright side was that we were nearing the end of shift and there was no way we'd be pulling a double—day shift had been busy, and the morgue wouldn't get to the body until probably this evening, and most of the evidence wouldn't be ready until just before then anyway. Catherine had to get Lindsey to school, and I…

I needed to do something.

I wasn't sure what… I just knew that I had spent the entire night with the image of Mr.-young-and-handsome from Sara's past in my head… the way he'd looked at her, and the way she'd looked at him, and the way she fell into his arms. Even if she felt nothing for him… he was still a threat. Weren't we both her exes? Yet she would never embrace me so boldly as she had him. We didn't have that kind of a relationship… As far as I knew, they hadn't spoken in years, and I saw her every day, and yet she felt more at ease with him.

I needed to do something.

I passed the break room on the way to log everything in—everyone was in already. At my head stuck in the door, eyebrow raised, Nick openly laughed. "Guy confessed, Griss. Besides, none of our evidence will be back for a while… I guess day shift's got some high-profile triple that's taking up resources."

I glanced at Sara, whose motionless gaze still seemed to confirm his words, despite giving no indication that she even saw me. I turned to Warrick next, and he held his hands up defensively. "If a double murder can't get their evidence up in the queue, what makes you think a smash and grab's got any chance? I'm low-priority."

I sighed, nodding, and turned to go, but Sara spoke up for the first time. "Griss?"

I stopped, turning back to the group. Her voice was not angry, though she'd clearly been angry with me at the beginning of shift when I'd snapped at her. I swallowed, making sure to control my voice this time. "Yeah?"

"I, uh…" She licked her lips and glanced at Nick and Warrick a little self-consciously. "I ran into an old friend, earlier tonight, and…" she bit her bottom lip, and I understood—she was telling me as if I didn't know, so Nick and Warrick wouldn't know about our conversation and the tension between us. "I, uh… invited Greg, Nick, and Warrick to come have breakfast with me and… him and his friend… I, uh… I'd like it if you could come too. …And Catherine."

I breathed in slowly, and let it out. "I, uh… I'll let Catherine know you invited her."

I turned on my heel and went to sign everything in, knowing that I hadn't really given her an answer for myself at all. I just… I didn't know. On the one hand, if I was there, I could more accurately gauge their present relationship if I could see it first hand. And the fact that she was inviting a large group rather than going alone was heartening. But at the same time… I wasn't sure I could handle seeing the love in his eyes. He had never gotten over her, and either Sara didn't know, or she did and she still had no problem spending time with him. …That had to mean something, right?

Just because she had the right to see anyone that she wanted, didn't mean that she should.

I set the various evidence bags down on the table beside Catherine, who was already carefully recording identifiers. "I, uh… I'm supposed to tell you, Sara invited the team out to breakfast."

Catherine looked up in surprise, and I felt for a moment that she saw right through me. Then she frowned. "Weren't you two fighting?"

I rolled my eyes. "Her boss telling her she needs to be more punctual doesn't qualify as a fight."

She believed me, nodding offhandedly and shrugging. "I spose—Lindsey's with Eddie today, so I don't see any reason why not. …What's the occasion?"

I rolled my eyes again, this time genuinely. "Some old friend's in town and she wanted us all to go with them." Really, it couldn't just be me. This sounded ridiculous, didn't it?

"Oh." Catherine's eyes flashed. "That sounds like fun." She passed me the pen, having finished with her pile, and glanced at her watch. "Shift's just about over—I'll go tell her I'm in. See you at breakfast!" She called, moving out of the room before I can contradict her and tell her that I am most certainly not going. …Or, well, at least… uncertain if I am.

I logged evidence, taking my time, and when I headed back out towards the locker room, I expected everyone to have left for breakfast without me. They were all still in the break room, and I hurried past without catching anyone's eyes. Maybe I was being a coward… No, I definitely was. Every step closer to the dark seclusion of the locker room made me feel closer to safety. But I just…

I stepped into the locker room, the door swinging closed behind me, and there was Sara, sitting on a bench, alone. My mouth went dry. "…Sara. What… what are you… doing in here?"

Her deep, dark eyes met mine, and I trembled. She held up a phone. "I… needed a quiet place to call Michael… let him know the team was up for meeting him." I nodded and turned to my locker—although I didn't want to prolong our interaction, I was also too proud to turn and walk out without doing anything. It would be tantamount to admitting my cowardliness. She clears her throat, softly. "Griss?"

I open the locker. "Hmm…?" This seems to be appropriately distant. There's silence as I pull out my keys and my jacket. I wonder if she's given up, or searching for words, or…

"…Gil?"

I turn a startled gaze to her and she purses her lips. "We'll be at Frank's… if you change your mind. I… It would… mean a lot to me, if you came." Her eyes hold mine, briefly, and then she's gone… moving silently out and leaving me standing, bewildered and alone.

I needed to do something.


	82. Malone v Grissom

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: I wasn't sure about this chapter. I came back to it several times, thinking about changing the way things happened, but...

This is really the only way I could see it happening. :)

Let me know what you think! It's longer than my usual chapters, so that should make you happy!

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Chapter 22: Malone v. Grissom

Frank's was close enough to walk to, so rather than piling into vehicles, we walked over, me on the phone with Michael most of the way, giving him and Dan directions to our diner. It was a seat-yourself kind of place and we slid three tables together, seating ourselves around it. Catherine took a seat next to me—which was unlike her—and the guys sat down beside her, leaving three open spaces—beside me, across from me, and across from Catherine… for the remaining members of our party.

Our usual waitress was over in minutes, grinning, coffee pot and a tray full of mugs already ready. "Bigger table than normal…" She said, placing mugs in front of each of us and hovering by the three vacancies. "Should I leave extras here?"

"That'd be great," I said, and she smiled, laying them down along with the steaming pot.

"I'll give you guys a minute—if you want to order before your other members show, just give me a holler." She winked at the guys who all leaned forward, grinning eagerly back, inspiring no little amount of eye rolling from Catherine and myself. She might not be my best friend in Vegas, but we were united as women—it was a matter of principal.

I heard Michael's laugh before I saw him—I turned immediately, causing my team's heads to follow my gaze, and I felt myself smiling brightly at the sight of him. I might be upset that Grissom wasn't coming, but I was still happy to see Michael—and happy for him to meet my friends. It felt like two pieces of my life were coming together… the way it had felt when Kelly had met Grissom for the first time.

"Sara." He beams, bending down to kiss my cheek—an action which both surprises me and makes me blush. I stand up, hugging him again and then turning to Dan, intending to extend a hand to shake—instead, he puts an arm around me and dips me low, kissing me full on the lips. I'm too surprised to move, at first, and put my hands to his chest to remove him, but by then it's over, the smell of vodka lingering in the air—and my entire team is looking at me in shock. Michael, as well, seems a little off put by his friend's actions.

Dan grins. "I never got to do that when you were dating this old man. I just thought, what the hell, last chance I'll probably get…"

I laugh, because really, what else can I do? "Is… he still drunk?" I ask Michael uncertainly, who rolls his eyes.

"I doubt he'll be sober in the next twelve hours. …I'm really sorry about that, Sara."

I blush again. "Yeah, I—"

"I hope I'm not too late." Grissom's voice comes from behind me, making me tense. I turned to look at him in surprise. "Grissom… You came."

He smiles, although it looks a little forced. "Well, of course… You're paying for breakfast, right?" He grins playfully, stepping between me and Michael and Dan and pulling out the seat beside me that all the others had left open for Michael. He smiled at the rest of the team and reached for the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup as if his actions were the most normal in the world.

It took me a minute to get my bearings, and then I glanced between Michael and my team. "I'm sorry, uh…Michael Malone and Dan Walsh. These are my friends… Gil Grissom, Catherine Willows, Warrick Brown, Nick Stokes, and Greg Sanders."

Everyone—including Grissom, strangely enough, greeted each other warmly and with a slight frown, Michael took the seat beside Grissom and Dan sat beside Greg. At the very least, he was still across from me. I frowned, thinking that this had gotten off to a rather awkward start—and wondering how to get everything back to normal—when our waitress returned. "Looks like everyone's here. I left coffee cups for you gentleman, but can I get you anything else?"

"Orange juice, please." Michael requested. Dan looked up at her questioningly.

"Does this place serve alcohol?"

Before the waitress could say yes—it's Vegas, after all—Michael overrode him. "He's already been cut off at about three bars tonight. Coffee would be good for him."

She smiled. "Sounds good. I'll be right back with your orange juice."

She walked away, and Nick—ever a knight in shining armor—sought to help me kill the awkward silence. "So, Michael… all we've heard about you is that you're an old friend of Sara's, from her Harvard days. Warrick and I've got a little bet going… Did you and Sara… were you ever…" He hesitated, wanting to ask his question nicely. And it clearly wasn't whether we'd dated, but whether we'd slept together… because he was struggling.

Greg helped him out. "He wants to know if you ever hit that."

I choked on my coffee, Michael's eyebrows rose, and Grissom cringed. Everyone else at the table laughed. Michael was a gentleman too. "I, uh… I don't really think…"

"Oh, he totally hit that." Dan provided. I felt my face flush even brighter while the table—myself, Grissom, and Michael excluded—burst into further laughter and Warrick passed a hundred dollar bill to Nick. Michael glanced at me uncertainly, but then our waitress was back, placing his glass in front of him.

"Alright—Have you had enough time to look over those menus?"

"Yes." I said, emphatically, desperate to change the subject, and the table laughed again, much to the waitress' bemusement.

When the other side of the table was ordering, Catherine leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially—though loud enough for Grissom to hear—"Wow, Sara, he's gorgeous. I never would have pictured you liking buff guys. …Was he this sexy when you two… _you know_?"

…Come to think of it, I had _you know-ed_ with five men in my twenty-eight years… and three of them were sitting at this table. …Why exactly had I thought this would be a good idea? I was clearly crazy. …At least Greg seemed like he had no intention of volunteering the information that he, too, had 'hit that.' I didn't need to worry about Grissom—he probably told himself that it had never happened.

I blushed. "He… What? I… No, he… he looks just the same as he used to, Catherine." I said, just trying to shush her. Clearly, this was why she'd sat by me… she wanted to girl talk about the men I'd introduced her to. I had to fight the urge to give her an incredulous look and ask her '_Really?_'

Our waitress swept away, and this time Catherine decided to save me. "Michael…" She batted her eyelashes. …Maybe she wasn't saving me intentionally. "You'll have to excuse the guys. Sara just… doesn't talk all that much about… anything before she moved to Vegas. So you come along and… well," she gave him a flirty smile. "We're curious."

That had to be the single most seductive 'curious' I had ever heard. It was like she was telling him exactly what she was curious about, and how much she would enjoy discovering her answers. I grit my teeth. Not that I wanted Michael… I mean, not really, although it was hard to be around him without remembering our more intimate moments… but that didn't mean he was up for grabs. That was girl code. Catherine should know that.

…Come to think of it, Catherine was the kind of girl who wouldn't necessarily care.

Michael seemed a little more at ease with this explanation, anyway. He even chuckled. "Yeah… Sara's never been big on giving out personal information. …I suppose I could help you guys out a little…" He said this slyly, with a glance in my direction, and I blushed, knowing that he was now playing their game. I groaned, and he laughed out loud. "…Do you want to know how she came on to me?"

"Hell yes!" said the guys, although I'm fairly certain I drowned them out.

"I did not come on to you!" I said, indignantly, hoping to put a stop to all of this, but Nick and Warrick were practically rolling on the floor with their laughter. Michael offered me a smirk, though his eyes were serious—they searched mine, and finding that I was not mad, even if I was thoroughly embarrassed, the smirk grew.

"…Really? I'm pretty sure an eighteen year old girl, in a bikini, rolling onto her side and informing the thirty year old stranger beside her that 'Adult and consensual…drinking… began at eighteen,' would be considered coming on to me."

All heads snapped to me—Grissom's included—and I felt my face on fire. "No, I… You had asked me if I was too young to get a drink! I… didn't want to be dismissed just because I was young…"

Dan rolled his eyes. "Like anyone could dismiss Sara in a bikini…"

Ah, and there it was. The peals of laughter again. Grissom and Catherine were the exceptions—Grissom was frowning, and Catherine looked a little put out that she was not the woman receiving the most attention at the moment. …We were on better terms, now, than we had been at first… but she still felt competitive. And now it wasn't just for Grissom's attention or recognition for the quality of work in the lab—this must be the first time she had viewed me as a threat physically. She didn't like not being the most beautiful woman to the men in her life.

Warrick's voice broke though the commotion at the table. "So… has Sara changed, since then? What was eighteen year old Sidle like?"

Michael chuckled, glancing at me. "…Mostly the same, I think. Dedicated, driven… stubborn as all hell, beautiful…" His eyes told me the words he'd left out. Secretive. Haunted. Dysfunctional. The only thing that might have changed is that I appeared, in this moment, to be more social than I used to be—and it was probably a moment that was less than representative of my actual day-to-day.

I cleared my throat. "Contrary to popular belief, I invited everyone to breakfast not to relive every embarrassing thing I've ever done, but so that Michael and Dan could glean some advice from Vegas natives about where the best places to party are. They're having a guys weekend."

"The palace." Greg spoke up, winking at Catherine. "Most flexible strippers in town…" Everyone laughed at that, Catherine with a hair toss that said even if it had embarrassed her, she liked the attention, and Grissom with a cough to cover his amusement. I stepped on his foot and smirked, and the smile he gave me in return was genuine… despite the disingenuousness of his other actions since entering the restaurant.

When I glanced back at the table, I noticed Michael's eyes moving between the pair of us and I blushed again. Warrick leaned back in his chair. "I can let you know where you've got the best odds at blackjack."

Nick grinned. "I know every buffet in town with three dollar steak and lobster deals."

Dan and Michael turned to look between Catherine, Grissom, and I, as if waiting for our additions to what we might educate them about in Las Vegas. Catherine did another hair toss. "The club scene. Although… I don't do foam parties of any kind."

Most of us laughed, although Michael looked frightened to discover what a 'foam party' might be… and Dan looked positively eager. The gazes fell between myself and Grissom, who looked entirely unfazed by the pressure of so many eyes. I cleared my throat. "I've done some research on the beach life around Lake Mead… if you guys were staying longer, maybe we could go wind-surfing. As of yet, I haven't made the trip, but…" I shrugged, realizing my sentence really didn't need an end. Michael smiled, no doubt remembering my love of the beach.

"It's too bad we didn't run into each other sooner. …We could have gone sailing." I smiled, remembering all the time we'd spent on his little boat, having picnics out in Boston Harbor, drinking wine and watching the stars, making love on top of his leather jacket and under the tiny blanket he brought for the picnic. I felt myself blushing, and Michael's knowing smile, and Grissom's unfaltering gaze on my face.

He cleared his throat, drawing Michael's eyes away from mine. "I can tell all the places somebody's been killed. For example… the Bellagio. I assume you're staying there, yes? It was just build this year—already we've had about seven bodies taken from there. One old man had a heart attack, a teenager had an allergic reaction and couldn't find his epinephrine pen, a woman choked in a restaurant, and another woman killed her husband on the 16th floor when she returned from a show sooner than expected and found him with a hooker. …She still paid the hooker though. A little boy drowned in the fountains, a woman was smothered by her boyfriend on the 21st floor after she won the jackpot, and another woman put a corkscrew through the neck of her husband when she realized he'd gambled away everything they owned. They had four children at home…"

There was absolute silence at the table. And then our waitress came up, passing out plates and chattering happily, teasing Nick about his massive breakfast and giggling when he made a comment about beautiful waitresses tempting him into spending too much money. She left, and people began eating—Greg talking to Dan about what, exactly, a foam party entailed, Catherine, Warrick, Nick, and Michael discussing what Michael and Dan had done so far, and Grissom and I sitting and eating rather quietly.

I had wanted Grissom to meet the man who had been my savior in so many ways. The man who had given me my faith back, in men, after Tyler. The man who made it possible for me to love him as fiercely as I had. …I understood being jealous of someone who was actually a threat, but… he knew for a fact that even when I'd been with Michael, I hadn't loved him the way he loved me… and certainly not the way Grissom and I had loved each other. It didn't even compare, and he knew that.

…So why couldn't he put his testosterone aside and do this for me? Had I not dropped everything to come investigate when he needed me? Had I not given up my job to move to Vegas, even knowing that it meant there was even more keeping us apart than before? Hadn't I done just about everything he asked of me, ever?

Eventually, I was drawn back into the conversation we were all finishing our meals and the guys were prodding Michael for more information about me. I managed to head off just about all of his stories, with the exception of the birthday present Kelly had given me when I turned nineteen. No matter how many times I changed the subject, interrupted, and threatened bodily harm to the story teller and his avid listeners alike, it kept coming back up. Finally, I grit my teeth.

"Michael Thomas Malone, if you tell them a single thing that was in that box, I promise to tell Dan everything you told me I could never tell him."

Dan looked over in surprise, his eyelids heavy. "…What?"

Michael smiled, but kept his lips sealed from that point on, despite the goading from the guys that it couldn't be that bad and the indignant protests from Dan about what he'd been keeping from him. The check came, and though I had had fun… I was never happier to see a breakfast end. "Now, is this separate or all together?"

"Together. I'll take it." I said, and she passed it to me, though it had hardly entered my fingers before Michael had pulled it away.

"Really. I haven't seen you in years, and it was amazing to meet the people you care about. Let me."

Grissom extended his hand, and I nearly groaned out loud in frustration. Were we really going to do this again? "You're guests here. Sara's one of mine. I'll take the check." And though his words implied that I was one of many… one among Catherine and Greg and Nick and Warrick… it was clear that this wasn't his meaning. Or, not his overt meaning. The men weren't fighting over the check, they were fighting over me.

Warrick leaned forward. "Maybe I'll just ask Melinda for separate checks instead…"

I huffed, snatching the slip of paper back and pulled out my check card. "I'm paying. Everyone came out for me, and I appreciate it. …Thank you." I added, less briskly, glancing around the table to make it clear that I was including everyone, and I received pleasantries back from everyone except Grissom, though I'm sure its absence was only notable to me. I passed it to the waitress, Melinda, as soon as she came near the table and she gave me a knowing smile.

I waited for her to return with my card and a slip to sign, but the others were rising, exhausted and ready for bed.

"Well, Sara, thank you for breakfast, it was great. Next time's on me." Nick patted my shoulder and moved over to offer his hand to the two men. "It was great to meet you guys. I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip." They shook and Greg stood up, nodding and smiling to both men and ruffling my hair on his way out following Nick.

His voice carried back to us, "Does that mean you'll pay for my breakfast next time too?"

Nick laughed. "Not a chance, Greg. You make more than me, remember?"

Warrick was the next to rise—"It's been said, but this really was fun. The next time you guys are in town we should all meet for drinks… maybe Sara will let you give us more information if she's properly intoxicated." He grinned, Dan and Michael laughed, and Warrick turned to us. "Thanks, Sar'. See you guys tonight…"

"Night War'" both Catherine and Grissom called. And then Catherine was up.

"I'm sure Eddie will be calling to have me take Lindsey back early… he usually does. I'd better get some sleep before then. Michael, Dan…" She shook their hands, and I swear she passed Michael a number in the shake. Seriously, who did this woman think she was? "Sara, Griss." She said, nodding to each of us before making her way out as well.

I bit my bottom lip. This had gotten awkward. Michael and Dan were waiting for Grissom to leave so that I could talk to them before we parted, but Grissom sat firmly in place, drinking his coffee. I sighed, realizing he wasn't moving, and turned to Michael and Dan.

"I'm sorry if… the team was a little overwhelming. I… didn't expect them to want so much… information." I blushed, and both Bostonians grinned.

"No—it was a lot of fun. I can see why you love them. …Thank you, for doing this."

I smiled. "Of course. …I… wanted you guys to meet. It feels like… connecting two pieces of my life."

Dan didn't know that my life was fragmented, and that connecting pieces made me feel more whole. The other two men, I am certain, sensed as much—but they didn't say anything. Michael glanced at Grissom, and then back at me. "Listen, Sara... I've been thinking about doing a seminar at UNLV next summer. I… just got the invitation so I… haven't really figured it out yet, but… knowing you're here, I'd… really like to do it. …Reconnect. But… if you wanted this to just, you know, be a onetime thing… catch up and then go back to… not talking… I would understand that."

I blushed again, glancing uncertainly down at the table, because I desperately wanted to look at Grissom and I knew I couldn't. "I… No, I'd… really like to see you again too. …Rekindle a friendship." I put the tiniest bit of emphasis on the final word, but his eyes told me he understood what I was telling him. I didn't want to be romantically involved next summer, if he were in town.

"Great. …I… Well, I guess I can let you get home… get some sleep. You've been working all night." I stood, and as I did, Melinda returned my card and the slip to sign. I took them, setting them on the table and hugging Michael tightly.

"I… I'm gonna miss you." I said, and was surprised at how true it was—I hadn't seen him in years, but I would miss him. A lot.

His voice was gruff when he responded. "I'm going to miss you too, Sara. I really, really am."

I pulled back a little, smiling softly at him. "You have my number, now. …We'll keep in touch."

"Yes. We will," he said, his eyes revealing a depth of emotion I couldn't decipher. "…Is Of Mice and Men still your favorite?"

I smirked. "One of them."

He chuckled, and pulled back entirely. "It's good to know that some things never change."

I turned to Dan, who held his arms out for a hug. I took a step back, offering him a hand instead, and he pretended to be hurt before taking my hand and pulling me into a genuine hug. "It really was good to see you, Sar'. Take care of yourself."

I laughed. "Don't strain yourself at those strip clubs…"

He winked. "Strain myself? I'm in the best shape of my life!"

I laughed as they walked out, Michael turning back to smile and wave before he moved through the door, disappearing into the already hot air of a Vegas morning.

I sighed, sitting down to sign the bill and collect my card and quite possibly have it out with Grissom. The way he was acting, who could tell? I pulled a pen from my purse and wrote in gratuity and tip, signed my name, and replaced the card and pen. Grissom said nothing. I huffed, giving in and looking at him. His gaze was fixed on me. "…Was all of that necessary?"

He raised an eyebrow and got to his feet, pulling out his wallet. "I came." He dropped a ten dollar bill to the table. "For a table this large, you should leave more than fifteen percent gratuity. …Thanks for breakfast, Sara."

And he turned and left, leaving me clutching my signature and apparently inadequate tip.


	83. The Mile High Club

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: :) Thanks, as always, for the reviews. Those of you who don't review, I hope that you're enjoying this as well. Every once and a while, tell me what you like or dislike. I stress over chapters in this particular story like nobody's business, so the feedback is nice.

Rage--I found the last chapter funny too. :)

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Chapter 23: The Mile High Club

…Okay, maybe I'd been just a little out of line.

But I drag myself out of the crime lab and over to the diner because Sara had pulled a card I could hardly refuse… to see some drunk ass who calls himself her and Michael's friend, bending her over and kissing her like he owns her—and I know my Sara. …Sara. Just Sara.

Regardless, I know her and I knew from the wide-eyed look of surprise and the way she looked at him afterward that the advances had been unwelcome. If he hadn't been her friend, she probably would have punched him. …As it was, she made it a joke, and laughed it off, while her hero Michael did nothing to defend her honor or reprimand his friend.

I felt guilty after I left, and though I couldn't bring myself to apologize—Sara and I couldn't talk like we used to, whether we were on better terms or not—I tried to make it up to her. I gave her the most interesting case, and gave her Nick to work it with her. Other than Greg, Sara seemed closest to him, and I thought that would help.

That left a trick roll. I gave it to Warrick because Catherine had a court date coming up, and spent the entire shift holed up in my office, working on paperwork. …It seemed like I had never appreciated the demands on Brass when he'd run the shift. True, I'd taken on some of the load and helped him out, but the sheer volume of paperwork and signatures involved was overwhelming. I felt like, more often than not, I was busier signing my name than solving crimes.

On days when finishing the paperwork could not be put off any longer and I ended up pulling a double just to get it in on time, I found find myself daydreaming while I caught an hour on my couch before the next shift, about giving the shift up. …Catherine would be the most logical choice, because she was the senior CSI. Truth be told though, good as she was at her job, I didn't really think she was cut out to lead a shift yet.

For the good of the lab, I couldn't. …But if I could… I would find myself a man who had previously believed himself strapped with responsibilities, now set free. And the minor issue of dating a coworker seemed minimal compared to a supervisor dating a subordinate. …Not that I could necessarily bring myself to be with Sara, again. I… I wanted it. God, I wanted it. But anytime I let myself consider it as more than a passing fantasy, I saw her wrapped in some strange San Franciscan's embrace, hiding her vulnerability in his bed while I sat at home, hoping I could just spend Christmas with her.

And then I would feel so nauseous that I was certain I'd be sick if I didn't get my mind on someone else.

Still—giving her the case seemed to help. I jumped in when I could, talking them through evidence. Despite both being level three's, they were newer to this. I had told Sara, the first day we met, that experience was the one thing you couldn't learn in a textbook—and the real force behind 'intuition.' They still needed guidance, here and there, and I was happy to provide it.

Especially when Sara smiled brightly at me instead of avoiding my gaze, and when Nick strove so hard to gain my approval. I reveled in gently guiding them in the right direction and watching them excel.

Their case took up most of a week, and by the time we were wrapping it and finishing up work on other open cases in our backlog, we were getting a call that required my whole team. The Sheriff Mobley requested our presence specifically. A DB on a plane, suspicious circumstances, and the sheriff breathing down my neck, talking about our window to be 'heroes' by solving the case before the FAA arrived in the morning.

…I really hated the Sheriffs, because they were worse than people like Ecklie, who thought of our roles as a career—they viewed everything through the lens of politics. I had no interest in playing politics, nor making any decisions based on a politician's desire to use our success to back his campaign efforts. I was here for the victims. I contented myself with making a snide comment asking if he was running for mayor when he said that an arrest would be good for me and him and Vegas. He might as well be giving a Miss America speak. 'This arrest will give us world peace…'

I needed to go start with my team before I said something job-threatening. They were all waiting on the plane already, which was good. Despite disagreeing with the Sheriff, I was aware of the time crunch—if we were taking the case, I wanted to solve it. I stepped up inside, glancing around. They all looked well-rested… we'd had an easy few days. They'd be ready to work fast, and that was going to be necessary.

"…from Atlanta, married, no record." Catherine finished speaking as I came fully inside, my eyes rescanning the first class section of the plane in case I'd missed anything obvious the first time around.

"So," I said, glancing around, "what do you think?" I wanted to get their first impressions.

"I don't know, but this sure must have looked scary at 30,000 feet." Catherine responded.

"All this damage by one guy—had to be on drugs." Warrick said, shaking his head.

"Too much damage for one guy." Sara said softly, and I felt myself beaming with pride. She was seeing the scene as it presented itself, not the story we'd been told.

"So… more than one guy." Nick concluded. He and Sara thought a lot alike. "What do you think, Griss?"

"I think we've got ten witnesses all signing the same song: Deceased went berserk. Unless we find something else in the evidence, that's what happened." I said, not because I didn't believe anything had happened, but because I was stressing the vital need to find something to prove the eye witnesses wrong. Juries put far too much stock in eye witness testimony. "Catherine?"

She nodded, knowing what I wanted without asking. "I'll start the interviews."

"Thank you. Warrick, go with."

"Yeah." Warrick responded, nodding.

"Brass has them all assembled in the lounge—assume there's evidence on everyone. Nick, go with the coroner. Sara and I will work the plane. …This is a mobile crime scene—it might not be here tomorrow."I said, stressing without needing to say so that we needed to work this as fast as possible. Everyone headed out, and I glanced at Sara, offering her a smile.

She returned it, and launched into an assessment of the scene. "This much damage speaks to come kind of encounter. …If there was a fight on the plane, why would every witness be defending the killer?"

I felt my lips quirk in a smile. I loved watching Sara's mind running through the motions, making the connections. And I knew, instinctually, that she felt more strongly than she was willing to say in front of me that this was foul play. She didn't want to be adamant and then be proven wrong, because she was still eager for my professional approval.

"Once David arrives, take the area around the body so they get it back to Nick and Jenna as soon as possible. I'm going to go talk to the pilot."

She nodded, camera in hand, already crouching down beside the body. I gave her form a quick once over, feeling almost sad in the observance of the sleek line of her neck and the subtle curves of her form. I had made mistake after mistake since Sara had come to work with me…I was just lucky that she forgave me so easily, offering again and again an unassuming camaraderie. We had fought last week, and yet the entire interaction was absent any awkwardness. She was the consummate professional.

The pilot gave us very little—except that he didn't believe our victim to have been drunk or on drugs. He mentioned that people acted strangely when flying, and I filed the information away, thinking that maybe that could explain his behavior. Sara's question had been extremely pertinent—certainly there had been some type of scuffle on the plane, but why would ten strangers all decide to tell the same story? The only explanations were that either one—they were all responsible, or two—it was partially true, and his behavior had been erratic.

By the time I returned, Sara had processed the body as much as she could in-place, and David and the coroners had removed it. She was holding a stack of orange cones with tape wrapped around them. "Hey—anything from the pilots?"

"Very little." I said, looking at the cones. She offered me another open smile, and for a brief moment I felt like we were back on the level of being friends, not coworkers, not boss and subordinate, and certainly not mere acquaintances. Friends.

"I thought we'd put the names of the passengers here," she pointed to the tape, "and place them around the cabin. You always say we go fast by going slow—it'll save time to not be constantly checking who was seated where."

I gave her a bemused smile, wondering not for the first time how she remembered the things I said so clearly. "Great idea." Her flushed, beaming response made me realize how rarely I complimented her. …Maybe I ought to do so more often. We got to work.

We found a broken seat in front of Tony Candlewell's—our dead guy's—seat, and blood drops beside Lou Everett's seat… and very little else. Sara stood to stretch, as she'd been crouching beside seats for the last half hour. "So I've been thinking… You know I asked why they'd all tell the same story when it clearly isn't the truth? Why defend a stranger? What if they were all involved? I mean, do these people know each other outside of this plane? …Maybe there's a connection we don't know about."

I stood too, cringing at the creak in my knees. "I'll go see how Catherine's doing—someone has to be talking. …You can do the last few rows on your own?"

"Of course."

I nodded, and moved out, heading to the first class lounge, asking the question that had been on my mind all night, building in intensity with each new piece of information. If nothing criminal had taken place, why wasn't anyone talking? Because _something_ had happened beyond what they were telling us. Her thoughts were the same as mine, and as Sara's. They were hiding something. …I just couldn't figure out why.

I headed back to the plane, thinking I could help Sara finish—there was no way I'd been gone long enough for her to have finished—when my phone rang. Nick and the coroner had found intracranial bleeding, thoracic hemorrhaging, a ruptured spleen, a fever, and a bruise which Nick thought looked like the heel of a boot. I would leave that detail out when I reported to Sara, I thought, climbing back into the plane, at least for now. I didn't want it swaying her assessment of the scene.

She informed me that the passenger in 4B had been drinking fairly heavily, and I moved over to find the evidence of this—several small liquor bottles tucked in the pouch in front of him—and when I glanced up, she was holding a broken wine bottle, with what looked like blood on the edges. Tony Candlewell had had defensive wounds on his hands…

Sara glanced back at the cone. "Marlene Valdez was sitting in 2E."

I opened my phone, calling Brass and Catherine to let them know, while Sara moved into the aisle. I hung up and moved with her, stepping ahead when she stopped to look closer at something, and I spotted the other half of the wine bottle on a smashed cart on the floor. That was probably how the bottle had broken. …A weapon of opportunity?

"Sara…?" I moved to the side while she looked up at me and picked up the piece. "The other half of the wine bottle, from 2E… So, Marlene in 2E slashes the victim… he's bleeding. …Where does he go?"

"The lavatory." She says, and then we're up and moving. A glance inside tells us very little, and she points this out quickly with a sigh. "No evidence."

My own experience, years prior, in an airplane bathroom makes me think we ought to take a closer look. I smirk, mostly to ward off the blush I'm feeling. _That_ is not a story I'm willing to share with anyone, least of all Sara Sidle. "Well, no patent evidence, but if there's blood present, there might be latent evidence." There. That sounded plausible. And there _could_ be blood present. A second after I spoke she'd moved, and a glance behind showed me the UV light.

"One step ahead of you, every so often." She said, the subtlest tease in her voice. If she knew what I was really looking for, she wouldn't say so.

"Thank you." I said, taking it and moving over to the sink… because that was where my experience had taken place. It felt… most plausible. "Ah," I said, a moment after turning it on. "Would you hand me the Christopher Columbus from my field kit?" I asked, when I'd found exactly what I expected.

She watched me for a moment as I looked through the mini microscope and found semen, exactly as I'd expected. "…I take it that's not blood?"

"No," I smiled, looking at her in disbelief that she hadn't figured it out. "But there's protein in it." I teased, watching as realization dawned on her face.

"Ohh. The mile high club." And I felt myself getting a nervous, excited feeling. Talking about sex on a plane with Sara, even in the context of a case, was more personal than we'd been in a long time. I wanted it to last. "…That means the two passengers might have had no idea what was going on inside that cabin." She concluded, and I went out on a limb, quoting the article I'd read on the plane.

"You know, high altitude enhances the entire…sexual experience. It increases the euphoria." I expected her response to be surprise… I expected her to tease me about how I would know such a thing, and I could fall back on the article. Hell, I probably still had the issue, so there was no risk of revealing anything… and in the meantime, she could playfully interrogate me on a very personal subject. …I did not expect to receive _her_ opinion on airplane sex.

"Well…" she started, drawing out the word in thought. "It's good. …I don't know if it's _that_ good."

I looked back at her in shock, realizing with a jolt that she had joined the mile high club as well. …When? With whom? …Michael? Tyler? The third man who I knew nothing about? I knew for a fact that it couldn't be from the man she'd been with after I'd asked her to spend the holidays with me—she'd told me that it had happened after a night of drinking… no planes involved. Had she been with someone else, since then?

It seemed like she realized the implications of what she'd said as soon as I did—and made the leap to my statement, a moment later. "…Cite your source." she demanded.

I made an impatient noise, mostly because I felt somewhat nauseous at the idea of not-knowing. "Hand me a swab, please."

The grin on her face, however, was infectious. "You're avoiding the question. …'Enhances sexual experience, increases the euphoria…' Cite your source." She demanded again, and I sighed.

"A magazine."

Her eyes narrowed. "What magazine?" Her tone was entirely skeptical, and still light and teasing. Was she flirting with me? I gave another impatient sigh, though this one was less than genuine. If she could ask me, I could ask her....

"Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science." I said, with emphasis. She smirked.

"Never heard of it."

"I'll get you a subscription." I teased, reminding myself to do so… or at least find the old magazine. "Now… Cite your source." It took everything I had not to beam with pride. If we were talking about past experiences, and in the process of doing so, she was still flirting… it meant that talking to me meant more than remembering _him_. Whoever he was.

"Oh. Now you wanna go down that route?" She challenged, and I felt elated. The slightest of blushes had risen to her cheeks, but everything about her body language was leaning towards me, and the smile she was fighting told me she was enjoying the interaction as much as I was—and for the same reasons.

"Yeah…"

The blush increased, still subtle, but there. "…Nah. Nevermind."

"You started it." I sat, looking at her more fully, imagining drawing her into this bathroom and contaminating the crime scene and making her entirely mine all over again. I felt my hands trembling, just slightly, with the temptation that was washing over me.

She paused a moment, as if bracing herself, and I briefly saw the flash of something hidden and hurtful in her eyes, but it was gone in a moment, and her flirting was back, her voice more confident than it had been a second ago… maybe a touch of her bravado had been slipped in, to give her strength. "…Delta Airlines, Flight1109, Boston-Miami, March '93, Ken Fuller…hazel eyes." She took a breath, her eyes flickering up to the ceiling repeatedly, as though she couldn't look at me while detailing this. I felt surprise slipping over my face at the details. I had heard that name before, and never so… flippantly. She was hiding, again. "…Organic Chem. Lab… T.A., BMoC… Overrated. In… every aspect. …Can… we get back to work, please?"

"…Yeah." I said, realizing that once again, idle flirting could not ever be just that, with Sara. No longer imagining destroying our crime scene, I was remembering in detail the violent nightmare she'd had before giving me the name 'Ken' as her only explanation. I was remembering the butterflies when we'd been wrapped up in bed, in the very beginning of our relationship, the night of our first kiss. Ken had been her only one-night stand… and her tone had told me that I would get no more information. …Had she been raped in the airplane bathroom? Certainly someone would have heard… certainly she wouldn't be talking about the event so flippantly?

I stood, no longer feeling elated, but struggling to keep the tease in my voice, because I knew she didn't want to talk about it. "I think, because of your first-hand knowledge and experience in airplane bathrooms… You can do the swab."

Her smile and blush returned, a little disbelieving and very playful, and I smiled and moved away. It was just too much, to see her pretending that this wasn't a problem… pretending or maybe even honestly believing that I didn't know any better. …Had we really gone so far, in covering our past, that she would think I didn't remember?


	84. Comfort Seeking

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Also, you can expect an update on New Beginnings tonight or tomorrow as well. :) Sorry for the delay, I've been distracted.

Speaking of, has anyone seen Kiss the Sky with William Petersen? I just watched it today, and it's like... I dunno. I keep thinking about it. It was... good, though. :)

Thanks for the reviews!

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Chapter 24: Comfort Seeking

I was proud of myself.

I mean, I'd talked about Ken before—I'd told my story to lots of girls, when the occasion called for it, at the Rape Crisis Center I'd volunteered at in San Francisco. I'd told Melanie, and the counselor I saw for that brief amount of time. But… I knew it would be harder to talk about with Grissom.

I had thought it would be impossible to even mention anything beyond his name—which was all Grissom had ever heard, even when we were intimate.

But I had talked about the sex that had been the precursor to the event without getting emotional, or breaking down, despite the understand I saw in his eyes. He knew that I hadn't told him everything… that I was still hiding something… but I had done it.

I felt amazingly empowered, and giddy to the point of silliness. When I found handprints on the ceiling of the bathroom, I muttered "…Handprints. …Stallion." And then had to fight back laughing out loud, because then Grissom would come ask me and… Yeah, we didn't need to have another sex-on-a-plane related conversation. …Despite the fact that I knew, I just _knew_, that he had joined the Mile High Club as well. Applied Psychodynamics in Forensic Science, my ass.

I was equally giddy when we reenacted the scene, trying to determine how the victim's encephalitis—swelling of the brain—had impacted his actions and the actions of the passengers around him. He'd been out of his mind, and the people around him had panicked. So when Grissom gave me Shannon and Warrick commented with a slight innuendo in his voice that I was 'The stewardess,' I grinned and saucily replied, "Excuse me—It's 'Flight Attendant.'" I smirked when Catherine teased Grissom for his lack of imagination when he made her a single mom, and had to literally fight back laughter when he made Nick and Warrick a married couple and inquired who was going to wear the pants.

"CSI 3—Seniority, sweetie." Nick said, taking the card with the husband's name. Warrick reluctantly took the wife's card, grumbling.

"Yeah, whatever. …You're henpecked anyway."

I smirked at their bantering and turned to Grissom. "Let me guess—You're the computer geek."

"In the interest of clarity—yes. Nate in 2C." He sits down in the broken seat, it falls, Warrick laughs, and Grissom glares. I had to fight back giggles—everything was just so funny when you felt this good.

Grissom lectured us on hurrying—sunrise was in ten minutes, and apparently we were vampires… I mean, did he really expect the FAA to be here as soon as the sun cleared the horizon?—and we began our reenactment. It was playful at first, Nick and Warrick dropping endearments right and left and Brass emphasizing his character's drunkenness… but by the time they were kicking the dummy on the ground, I'd realized something.

"Hey, guys… If you jump a guy at the exit, he dies at the exit."

He had tried to get away, and the people had chased him down instead. It wasn't to save themselves—he was no longer trying to open the door—they'd let mob mentality take over. …They were all murderers. We walked out of the plane, sadder than we'd been before, the realization that normal people had been pushed to commit a horrible act far more troubling than the idea of one bad apple losing it and taking out Tony Candlewell—a man with a family, who'd just been sick. I couldn't imagine how those passengers had let themselves go so far, despite how our victim had been behaving.

Grissom tried to get the Sheriff to convict five of the passengers, but because we couldn't prove it beyond a reasonable doubt right then, he let them go. He said the feds could pursue it further if they wanted to. We went back to the lab, and while everyone else went to collect their things, Nick and I went right to the break room and turned on the news. As expected, they were already talking about our case—all the passengers we'd interrogated were being bused to their hotels, off to drink and gamble and sit by the poolside to relax. And half of them were murderers.

Warrick came in a moment later, taking the remote from me and turning the television off.

"Hey!" I cried, Nick's "Woah!" concurring with me.

"Let it go, guys."

My temper flared immediately. "Those people should be going to jail… not to some hotel on the Strip." I said with contempt. I might not mind living in Vegas, but I hated the Strip and everything it represented. I wasn't like Grissom—I didn't even like the lights.

"It's out of our hands. Our field ruling was overturned by the good old Sheriff and the feds."

"And you're okay with that?!" came Nick's incredulous reply. I realized, in that moment, just how much I liked Nick. We agreed far more often than we ought to, considering how different our backgrounds were. "We processed evidence for twelve hours, laid out the whole case, and now those passengers are just going to suck martinis and eat shrimp cocktails? Where's the justice?"

I nodded, remembering that Nick wasn't from Vegas either. He spoke about the Strip the same way I did. Warrick, however, scoffed.

"You think this is about _justice_?"

I bristled and Nick made a face. "Yeah—What else?"

Warrick sighed. "It's about human nature—How people react when their lives are threatened."

I scowl—pulling Tony from the door was reacting to being threatened. Kicking him to death was not. "…I _know_ you're not condoning what they did." I challenge, and his eyebrows raise.

"I'm not…discounting it. I mean, think about it. Is there any place you're more vulnerable than being at 30,000 feet in a tin can?"

I grit my teeth. I could think of a lot of places I had felt more vulnerable in my life, yet I had not killed Ken Fuller, or the foster dad who bit me, or either of my parents. …I chose to disregard what my mother had done, when she finally felt too vulnerable to endure. Even if I didn't think she should be in jail for it, that didn't mean I'd forgiven her for it.

"Feeling 'vulnerable' is a not a defense and where they were is irrelevant. …They took a life." I said, as if that should end it. Because it should—if nothing else in this world was holy, life still ought to be.

"Because their lives were threatened." Warrick responded, his voice rising just a little.

"Their lives were threatened when Candlewell was at the emergency exit, trying to open it," Nick clarified. "But the five feet between the exit and the aisles is what made the difference between self-defense and murder." Again, have I mentioned that I love Nick? I love him.

"Human nature again." Warrick said, calmer now. "I mean—adrenaline doesn't come with an off switch."

Adrenaline wasn't any more of an excuse than feeling vulnerable. "I don't care what you say. I could never take a life."

"If it was between him or me, I could. Nick?" Catherine and Grissom came into the room as he finished his statement while I rolled my eyes, frowning. Who could say that so easily?

Nick just shook his head and sat back in his chair, backing down. "I don't know." …Have I mentioned that I hate Nick? I hate him.

"Well… it's wicked serious in here." Catherine said, her eyebrows raised. I knew that I shouldn't rise to her, but I couldn't help it. My temper was barely contained beneath the surface and I had to let out just a little, or I'd explode.

"Yeah, well, we were just talking about _murder_ and whether we'd commit it. I couldn't, Warrick could, and Nick's on the fence." I said bitingly, glancing at him. "We're taking an exit poll."

Nick spoke up, perhaps in response to my glare. "Catherine—you're a mother. You and Lindsey are on that plane… How far do you go?"

"All the way."

I started. "You didn't even hesitate."

"That's right. If it comes to the protection of my child, I fight to the death."

I looked away, wondering what Kelly would say if asked that question about Joey. Surely she wouldn't agree…

"See?" Warrick said, eager to prove his point against my scorn. "We have four people here, all with different opinions. Think of what the passengers must have felt."

I had lost my ally in Nick. I turned to Grissom instead, thinking that he had wanted to convict them of murder as much as I had. "…What do you think, Grissom?"

He shook his head slightly. "I can't answer that question."

Catherine jumped on him. "That's a cop-out. It's a simple question. What would you have done if you had been one of those passengers?"

"It's not about that," he said, looking around and chastening each of us with his gaze. "You all have different opinions, but you've all taken the same point of view. You've put yourself in the shoes of the passengers, but nobody's put themselves in the shoes of the victim. …That's the point."

I frowned, uncertain. That didn't really answer whether they ought to be punished or not… if their actions were justified or not. "I'm sorry. What are you saying?"

"Nobody stopped to ask Candlewell if he was alright. They just assumed, because he was kicking the back of Nate's seat, that he was a jerk—because he was pushing his call button, he was bothering the flight attendant—because he was trying to get into the lavatory , he was a scene—because he was going back and forth up the aisles, he was posing a threat."

"He _was_ a threat," Catherine countered, clearly in disagreement with whatever point Grissom was taking forever to make.

"No. He turned into a threat. It didn't have to be that way. People make assumptions…that's the problem. You just did. And I think these passengers made the wrong assumption and now this guy's dead."

Warrick wasn't done. "Well—if that's your stance, how could this have been prevented?"

"If just one person had stopped and taken the time to look at the guy—to listen to him—to figure out what was wrong with him… it might not have happened." He paused, glancing between us. "It took five people to kill him. It would have only taken one person to save his life."

He looked between us, but I kept my gaze locked on him. I fell in love with him, all over again, in that moment.

I went home that day, looking around my apartment, feeling exceedingly alone. I glanced at the clock, and figured I could catch Kelly before she went to work. She might be busy getting ready but I knew she'd understand.

"…Hello?"

"Hey Eric. Sorry to call so early—Is Kelly around?"

I heard a muffled noise, and then he said my name, obviously telling Kelly who was on the phone.

"Yeah, she just got out of the shower. She says she'll be over in a minute. …How've you been?"

I smiled, flopping down on the couch. Eric wasn't very social either. "Pretty good… What about you? How's work?"

"Same old." He said, revealing as little as I had. "Kelly's got some pictures of Joey here she's been meaning to send you."

"Aww—I bet he's huge."

Eric chuckled. "Growing like a weed. Seems to think he can ride Puckett like a horse."

I smiled, thinking of the tolerant Golden Retriever. "What does Puckett think of that?"

Eric laughed again. "He just groans and sits down, so Joe slides off the back of him. It worked the first couple times… he'd cry and go play somewhere else… but he's gotten tougher, now."

I laughed, and then there's another muffled sound and Kelly's voice comes over the line.

"Sara?"

"Hey Kel'." I say, biting my bottom lip.

"Are you alright?"

I smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry to call so early… I figured you might have a minute or so before work."

"I actually have the day off—administrative in-service. …What's up?" She asked, knowing me too well to not see through me.

"Well… Okay, I just got home from work, and we had this case… Can I get your… opinion on something?"

"Yeah… Go ahead."

"Okay," I sighed, going back over the case in my head. "So this guy was killed on a plane. He had enceph—swelling of the brain… it made him act very erratic. He was sweating, kicking the back of this guy's seat uncontrollably… he had a headache, started pacing… banged on the restroom door."

"…Okay…"

"Well, everyone around him was upset—thinking that he was being disruptive on purpose. They fought with him, and he ran to the exit door, attempting to open it."

"Oh my god." She said, knowing as well as I did that that would mean certain death for everyone on the plane.

"I know…" I said, frowning, because I didn't want her to take the same stance at Catherine. "So they go get him away from the door, and he's trying to get away, heading back towards coach… and they jump him. …Five people kicked him to death."

"Oh god." She repeats, and I remember with a stab of guilt how unaccustomed she is to hearing about my job.

"So… I was talking about this, with my coworkers. And… I was the only one who would say, unequivocally, that I could never do that."

I could hear her frowning through the phone. "You could never kick somebody to death? And… your coworkers thought they could?"

"Yes. Well, no. They… It was in abstract terms. Warrick was saying that you can't turn off adrenaline—after they pulled him from the door, they'd already chosen 'fight' in their fight or flight reflex. They couldn't stop. And I said that I could never take a life, period. Adrenaline or no, Vulnerability or no. And then… Okay, so Warrick said if it was between him or someone else, of course he could. Nick said he didn't know, and Catherine… Nick posed it to her as having been on the plane with her daughter…"

She clucked her tongue. "You're wondering if motherhood had robbed me of my humanity?"

I didn't know whether to frown or laugh. Kelly knew me so well. "I just… I want to believe that protecting your child doesn't translate into killing some other little kid's dad to death, just because of biology. I want to believe that a really good person who is honestly only interested in protecting their kid could… overrule adrenaline. I want to believe in higher intelligence and all of our choices not simply being the reaction of hormones to stimuli."

Kelly laughed. "Sara, hon… Everyone _wants_ to believe that."

I sigh. "Okay. Thanks Kel'."

She laughs again. "No, okay. I… really, Sara, I would like to believe that I would know when to stop as well. I would like to believe that I would ask as an individual, even in a mob."

I bit my bottom lip. "Okay… I'm sorry I bothered you for this so early."

"Don't be. I've got some time—why don't we catch up? I was planning to call you later anyway, once I thought you'd be awake."

I chuckled. "I'm always awake. …How's Joey? Eric told me you've got some pictures for me?"

"Oh!" She said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I told you, the last time we talked, that Eric's parents had come for Thanksgiving? So they insisted we take him out to the pumpkin patch, even though all the pumpkins were gone because, hello, Halloween was a month ago… But the pictures turned out great. Lots of Joey in overalls climbing on hay stacks and giving Scarecrows funny looks."

I laughed, wishing I could see them now. "Aww. That sounds so sweet. Speaking of, you promised me Halloween pictures like,_ hello, a month ago_…" I said, teasing her. Joey had been dressed as a lion and with his bright blonde hair, I just knew he'd been adorable.

She laughed. "Yeah, yeah, you tell me you could do any better if you were babysitting two little boys all day."

I heard a distant "Hey!" from the background as Eric obviously didn't approve of her statement, and we both giggled. Kelly cleared her throat.

"What about you? Anything huge going on?"

I shrugged. "No, not really. I've just been… Oh! Oh, wait! I didn't tell you!"

She laughed. "_What_ didn't you tell me, Sara?"

"I saw Michael!"

She gasped. "Malone? Like, old Michael, from Boston Michael?"

I laughed. "Yes, that one. …The only one we know."

"You, what, saw him in Vegas?"

"Yeah. He and Dan were on some sort of bachelor's adventure…"

"Oh my god! When?!"

I chuckled. "I dunno… like a week ago."

I can practically see her eyes bugging out of her head. "Sara! How did you not tell me this?! Okay, you need to tell me everything…"

I laughed and launched into how letting Paul Millander slip through our fingers for the second time had led Grissom and I to run into each other by the fountains, and how I'd run into Michael and the subsequent dinner, fighting with Grissom, Breakfast, fighting with Grissom, and ending with Michael telling me he'd be in Vegas over the summer. As soon as I finished, she was speaking.

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Sara…"

I frowned. "What? Why?"

I could hear her hesitating, choosing her words carefully. "It's just that… You and Gil are… in a strange situation, right now. You're working together, you're in love with each other, but you're not together, and you're unwilling to let anyone you work with know about your past. …I just think that… that you tend to seek comfort in familiarity, and with Michael there all summer…"

"What do you mean, I 'seek comfort in familiarity'?"

She sighed. "Can I be candid without you hanging up on me?"

I frowned. "Of course."

"Okay… Tyler broke your heart, but just him saying that he'd take you back and not get upset about Harvard—not him telling you that he was wrong, or sorry, or a complete sexist pig—was enough for you to want him back and to sleep with him. …After Spring Break in '93… you ran right back into Michael's arms, despite the fact that you broke up with him for a reason, and then you picked a school to run away to that was near enough your home town that you would feel comfortable. You and Gil break up, but you keep having sex with him via instant messaging. And then—"

"Okay, okay. I get it. Apparently I drown my sorrows in sex. Thanks for that."

She laughed, probably just relieved that I wasn't mad at her. "I'm just saying… be careful, Sar'."


	85. The Lights of Home

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Just kind of a fluffy chapter. Sex, Lies, and Larvae is coming up, which is a big episode for them, so I really don't want to leave much of it out, so I figured I needed some in-between stuff because the coming chapters will be episode-heavy. As always, thanks for the reviews and I look forward to more. Especially if you want to give me feedback of the (nicely...) critical variety. I've been trying to make the story more dynamic while still adequately portraying the episodes... So you know that I take your suggestions to heart. :)

Thanks! I hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 25: The Lights of Home

A week after the incident with the plane, I received an email from my mother, inquiring about whether I was working Christmas as usual, or if I 'might grace her with my presence this year.' My mother loved email—it was so much more convenient than using the TTY, and it had given her license to be far more… herself. Instead of scrolling sentences on a tiny screen, she could take the time to put more personality into her communications—and she did. I felt like I was constantly being scolded, via email and instant messaging, because my mother enjoyed being able to express herself so much.

I emailed her back, telling her as usual that I would be working so most of my team could take some time off with their families—Catherine and Eddie were going to try to have a family Christmas, despite the divorce, for Lindsey's sake, and I knew Nick had bought tickets home to Texas months ago. Warrick would probably spend it with his Grandmother and then call and ask if I needed any help… and Sara hadn't asked for any time off, so I could only assume she had no Christmas plans. Chances were it would just be the two of us, at least for a little while.

Christmas was like that—slow, until you started getting calls about domestic disturbances. This daughter had put a fork into her father's arm and that crazy uncle had started a house fire by trying to fix the one bulb on the string of lights that was making them all go out. That much time cooped up with family was hard.

The email, however, reminded me that I hadn't even thought about Christmas or the inevitable shopping involved. I put up a Christmas tree every year—it was tradition, and I liked seeing the color around my townhouse, not to mention putting up the ornaments Amber had made in school and sent me, before the whole Witness Protection fiasco. I figured Christmas was only a little over a week away and I might as well drag everything out. The tree was old and rather bare in places, tinsel impossibly tangled around several of the boughs, but it wasn't like I shared it with anyone. Still, I took the time to carefully place each ornament, and decided that the next day after shift, I'd go shopping. The last few years I'd barely gotten my mother's present to her on time.

Shift was slow, and for the most part everyone piled into the break room to finish up reports on cases or to go over recent cold case files to see if anything jumped out while they had some time. Greg steered clear of the room while I was there, but I noticed that as soon as I left, headed to my office, he left his empty DNA lab and headed in that direction, There was no doubt in my mind that he would be goofing off with the others, distracting them from their work… and I had half a mind to turn back around and catch him in the act.

But Greg had been a very good friend, to Sara especially, but to my entire team. And I didn't feel threatened by him so much anymore—certainly, Sara flirted with him, but… not nearly as much as she did with Nick or Warrick, and she didn't look at any of them the way… the way she looked at Michael. So as long as he wasn't in Vegas, I could let Sara have all the male companionship she wanted, because he was the real threat. …Not…that I cared. Sara could… date anyone she wanted to. Really.

Still, an hour in my office was about as much as I could take—I hated paperwork, and I certainly couldn't handle the idea of the team socializing while I isolated myself here. Not that I was all that social but… I liked my team. They were rare among people I had met in my life in that I actually wanted to get to know each of them. I loved my team.

It was only a matter of time, then, before I was grabbing an empty coffee mug from underneath several papers and taking it to the break room to rinse out and get myself a cup. Greg froze as soon as I appeared in the doorway, clearly half-way through some sort of reenactment—he looked like he was doing some kind of dance, his arms akimbo and one leg bent at the knee and lifted probably as high as he could get it. Everyone turned to look at me, and there was a moment in which I again considered yelling at him—for some reason he just grated on my nerves, despite no longer feeling threatened—but I saw Sara at the table, hand to her mouth, desperately trying to contain her giggles in the tense moment… and I couldn't help but crack a smile, shaking my head and moving over to the coffee machine.

They breathed a collective sigh of relief and I shook my head again. I really was not that frightening. I rinsed my cup while Greg continued his reenactment—apparently he'd had a hot date over the weekend and he'd taken her to a Cirque du Soleil performance because she was a dancer. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively whenever he said the word 'dancer'. He was attempting to show Nick and Warrick a move that had prompted her to turn to him in the middle of the show and promise she could recreate.

Catherine had tossed her hair and shook her head, telling Greg that not only could most women do what he had just attempted, but that any dancer could do the move he was actually referring to.

Warrick leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "You willing to put money on that? …You're the only one in the room whose ever been a dancer…"

She rolled her eyes, sitting back in her own chair and crossing her legs. "I was a stripper, War', I didn't paint my body and do contortions."

Nick snorted. "It's okay, Cath'. You don't have anything to prove to us… I mean, you did say any dancer… and any woman could at least do better than Greg." He smirked, glancing at Sara, and then turned to Warrick. "Twenty bucks says Sara could do better than Greg… and Catherine could do the actual move, in heels."

I drank my coffee slowly, letting my eyes drift over this interaction. I thought Sara would be offended at the implication, but she merely rolled her eyes. Warrick smiled lazily at both women. "I'll take that bet if you can find a way to prove it one way or another…" He grinned between the women, and I realized with a little surprise that he and Sara seemed… just fine. Friends, actually. The animosity with which they'd begun their relationship must have dissipated. It made me happy.

Catherine laughed when Nick turned to look at her. "I don't think so."

Greg scoffed. "You just don't want me to know I've found a woman whose a better dancer than you… I'll have to lust after someone else's torrid past from now on."

Catherine smiled affectionately at him, though her eyes slid uncertainly to me. She wasn't going to prove anything to anyone with me there. Usually I would frown on such things but… I felt giddy seeing Sara so… playful. It had been a long time since I'd seen her relaxed and happy. I chuckled softly, gaining the men's attention. "Fifty says Catherine can do it in heels. Another fifty says Sara will never demonstrate said ability one way or the other."

They all looked at me in surprise, and Sara blushed a little at my directed gaze. I didn't know about the specific contortion Greg had been attempting, but I knew better than anyone in this room how very flexible she could be with the right motivation. Those long, long legs were good for so many things… After a moment, the guys burst out laughing and Nick fixed his gaze on Sara.

"Well, Sidle… What's it gonna be? Show Greg what a real woman can do!"

She laughed and shook her head. "You should listen to the mad scientist over there… There's no way I'm contorting here in the break room for you creepers to eye me and pass money around so you can feel self-important."

There was a chorus of "Ohh!"'s at Sara's words and then their gazes turned to Catherine, who laughed. "Like I'm gonna jump up and prove anything after a speech like that! I think Sara might kick me out of our gender for that…"

She nudged the other woman, who actually laughed and shook her head, and I found myself beaming. Despite a rather rough beginning, Sara was a real part of the team now… connecting with everyone, laughing freely… It was a good feeling, knowing that she was making Vegas her home… that she hadn't moved here just for me and that I'd somehow let her down in my inability to allow us something more.

We exchanged a smile that warmed me through, and after shift, while everyone else headed off to breakfast, badgering me for not going with, I made my way to a gallery. It was off the strip, and very small… focusing on presenting local artists with a venue, because in Vegas, they were competing with the most well-known artists in the world and name mattered more than talent in the city of lights. Everything was about attracting tourists.

It would be perfect, because my mother loved to find work by artists she'd never seen before… and I knew, after years of living with her and working in her gallery in high school and on weekends in college before I worked as a coroner, what her style and preferences were. I found a beach scene I knew she would like, because it wasn't generic… it seemed like the picture of a rough sea… the waves were white-capped beneath a hot sun, the beach abandoned, but curled up in the corner of the picture, hardly noticeable, were a female sea lion and her pup, curled up and contented.

I bought the original and had them keep it behind the counter while I looked, thinking I might find something else she'd like or even something Amber might like. Every year, I looked for her, and had to force myself not to buy anything for her. If I did ever see her again, she would not want a closet full of toys she might have liked as a ten year old or books that were a big deal for a twelve year but which, by now, she'd no doubt read and forgotten. Still, it never hurt to look.

I walked the aisles, appreciating the local talent and missing California, where artists had a much better chance of gaining local notoriety than here in Vegas, when I chanced upon a black and white photo of the golden gate bridge at night. The lights from the cars were bright, illuminating the bridge in the dark, and the lights of San Francisco gleamed against the rocky, hilly backdrop behind the great structure. I didn't think twice—I bought it for Sara. I knew we hadn't exchanged gifts in years, but…

Well, I guess I didn't have an answer to that. I didn't have a real reason why this year should be the exception and I didn't have an explanation why I ought to get Sara a present but not anyone else from the shift.

I just did.


	86. Kaye Shelton

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: I'm not even going to bother trying to promise I'll be better about posting, though once again, I do intend to try. :) I want to thank anyone still reading this, it still means so much to me, as does your encouragement. Especially those of you who keep on me about it. You know who you are and even if I don't always get right on it, I listen and it helps. So sorry I'm so inconsistent.

Thanks and enjoy!

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Chapter 26: Kaye Shelton

A few days before Christmas, Grissom took me with him to a scene covered in bugs. I mean… just crawling in them. And I don't mind maggots so much, or beetles… but the bugs that fly all over so that you're never really sure where they could be on you… I admit they make me nervous. I would never admit such at thing to Grissom, of course, but they did… bees especially. I hated bees. I mean, borderline actual debilitating phobia kind of fear.

"Just Paper Wasps." He informed me, dismissively, moving in closer to the body of our vic—female, wrapped in a blanket, gunshot wound to the head. It is a testament to my ongoing and all consuming desire to be perfect in his eyes—not only as a woman, but as a CSI—that I grit my teeth and moved forward with him, into the masses. I felt a little light headed… downright queasy, even, but I did my best to disguise it as he listed off the names of The Beatles while placing actual beetles in jars. But when he asked after my beef jerky—which I was apparently 'always gnawing on'—I couldn't restrain myself entirely.

"You can eat?" I asked him, in disbelief… but no, he just wanted to take my food that I always had with me because I worked so much that I didn't have time for three solid meals in a day, and give it to his little bug friends. Logically, of course, I knew that he was preserving evidence for the scene with what he thought we might have on hand… but feeling the way I was about the bees and his impression of me as a person who 'gnaws' their food… I couldn't help it.

At the very least, collection took so long that we really only had time to log evidence in before shift was over. I suspected Grissom would stay a while with his bugs, but I wanted to get the hell out of there… namely, into the closest shower available. The bees… I felt like they were hiding in my pockets and my hair and crawling up my back. I couldn't shake the feeling.

I showered in the locker room before going home, and caught a few hours of sleep, but not nearly as much as I would have liked… my dreams weren't awful, but they were filled with beetles gnawing on beef jerky while a barbershop quartet of bees sang "Let It Be." …I was convinced that if I could just force myself to stop dreaming—good, bad, or just downright strange—I wouldn't be an insomniac. You try to sleep when you have crazy stuff like that filling your head.

So I was feeling exhausted and little temperamental when I went into work the next night, but five minutes with Greg's coffee and a forensic journal, sitting in the comfortable comfort of my colleagues… and I thought it might be an okay night. I still had a headache, telling me I was very overtired, but I wasn't feeling quite so on edge. When time for assignments came and passed and the others started questioning where Grissom was, I spoke up softly, saying we'd had a body covered in insects and that he was likely holed up in his office entertaining himself with them… they chuckled, and Warrick stood to get some coffee, offering Catherine a refill.

Not for the first time, I wondered if there were some unacknowledged sparks between them.

When he did arrive and Catherine asked him how his body with the bugs was… he turned and looked at me accusingly, asking how they knew about it already… like I had been somehow supposed to know that he didn't want me to talk about it? It was instinctual—I lied. "Hey, don't look at me!"

Nick spoke up on my behalf, saying they'd played a hunch and called homicide when he was late… and Grissom raised his eyebrow, passing out assignments… Warrick and Catherine had a missing piece of art, although I had a sneaking suspicion they thought it was a missing person case (the only reason I knew is because I'd taken it upon myself to become an art expert when Grissom told Kelly his mother ran a gallery…), and Grissom sternly informed Warrick to break off when he needed to be in court. Nick got an actual missing person's case and cracked a joke, his eyes sliding to the side to gauge my reaction while I laughed… and then lost his giddy grin when Grissom was stern with him. Apparently he was in a mood tonight. I hid my frown, hoping that I wouldn't fall victim to it next, and followed him out.

We went right down to autopsy, noticing now that she was a little cleaner and in better lighting that our victim had been shot at close range… an intimate killing. "Full of sound and fury… signifying what, Doc?" Grissom asked, and I tried to place it… had that been a quote? Then I mentally chided myself for feeling as though I ought to be able to recognize every obscure reference Grissom spoke. He was my mentor, not my deity of choice.

"I took these…" he answered, leading me over to her facial x-rays. I found myself speaking aloud as I surveyed her past wounds… nasal bone, orbital bone, mandibular… all facial fractures. "Typical for battered women." Doc nodded, knowing what I was implying.

I felt a sinking feeling in my chest." …These aren't fresh, are they?"

"The old fracture lines indicate this woman was in a long-term abusive relationship."

"Any idea how long she's been dead?"

"The elements really got to her. Grissom and his insects are going to have to figure that one out." Doc turned back to Grissom, who was still hovering over the woman's body. "Have we lost you, Grissom?" He asked, and it hit me.

Macbeth. Shakespeare. _It is a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/signifying nothing._

"The worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle on your snout." He muttered, apparently in response to Doc's inquiry. I turned around, separating myself from my horror at the x-rays. It had to come sooner or later… a domestic case that I would have to do with Grissom. And the best way to get through it without revealing too much was to detach myself as best I could manage.

I turned, managing a smile. "Shakespeare again?" I asked, not feeling bad that I didn't recognize his second quote now that I had identified the first.

"An old nursery rhyme," he responded, which explained why I couldn't place it. I'd had too few positive childhood memories to expect myself to know the more obscure nursery rhymes.

"A very special insect, Dr. Seuss?" Doc questioned him teasingly, and I smirked.

"A musket fly. Typical only in urban areas…"

"But you found her in the mountains." Doc pointed out, and the grin Grissom gave—not to me, but to the shriveled up musket fly—made me weak in the knees. It was one of pure happiness.

We just needed to determine who our victim was, find her deadbeat husband or boyfriend or ex and his home in the city in which he'd killed her… Grissom's bugs would tell us when it had happened, and we'd nail the guy. …There was no reason in the world to believe that I would struggle with this case the way I was afraid I would. I didn't want Grissom to see me as weak… and I certainly didn't want him to guess at why it might upset me so much.

The problem was that it didn't happen that way. Brass ID-ed the body using AFIS, found her husband—Scott Shelton—and reported that a neighbor had heard screaming and a gun shot five days previous. We brought him into PD for questioning… and things quickly slipped out of my control. He said that Kaye—that was her name, Kaye Shelton—screamed at him a lot, sometimes got violent, left him several times. And that he had been out of town. It was probably just the TV that the neighbor heard. It was all I could do keep myself from lashing out at the man. I slid the folder across the table to Grissom, letting him lead, because if I spoke I was afraid I was going to lose it.

"Mr. Shelton… Did your wife drive race cars?" Grissom asked, and despite my irritation, I felt myself smirk, a little. I had always known Grissom was a good CSI, but for a quiet man, he was a surprisingly powerful presence in interrogations.

Mr. Shelton scoffed. "You're joking, right?"

"No." he said, his voice a little condescending, a little impatient. "The two most common causes of facial trauma in adult women? Motor vehicle accidents… and domestic violence." One by one, Grissom pulled out her x-rays, and I felt calm return. With Grissom on my side, it didn't really matter that this man felt no remorse, because we were going to nail him. "These are you wife's x-rays."

"Every face and neck fracture your wife sustained over the past six years is highlighted." I said, calmly letting him know that we knew exactly what kind of man he was and what he'd done to her.

He said that she was 'exciteable' and that he admitted he'd wrestled her off of him in the past… a woman's face didn't end up that way from a man wrestling a woman away in self defense. Brass spoke up, pointing out that there had been three complaints of domestic violence against him in the last few years. He reinterated his point, claiming he'd never laid a hand on her… "How about a gun?" I said, feeling my irritation build again. He knew we knew and yet he sat there, flippant, completely uncaring what he'd done to Kaye.

He smirked and spoke to Grissom, as if I didn't warrant a response. "You have your hands full with her."

Grissom smirked back, but he narrowed his eyes at the man. "So do you."

He said we could come on over, no warrant needed, because he had nothing to hide… and I couldn't help it. I had to throw out a "We'll be the judge of that," because I was just so angry with this despicable man. Grissom didn't say anything, but the look that crossed his face was… curious. I didn't usually rise to suspect's provocation, and he was wondering at it.

We searched his home, and it was like being back in my parent's home… what I could remember of it. Scott had pictures and trophies and everything else under the sun on covering the walls, and yet there were only a couple pictures with Kaye in them. …There were none with just her, or with her and anyone other than Scott. It was like she didn't exist except in his shadow. My dad hadn't had a wall enshrining himself, per se, but he made all the decisions about the home. All the decorating, the furniture, the pictures… they reflected who he was. His hearth and home. His sanctuary. My mother didn't warrant one.

Despite the occasional barb I threw at him, unable to contain myself, I knew we were going to nail him. He had a gun that matched the gun that had killed Kaye, a single bullet missing—strange bullets, in fact—his gun recently cleaned, a missing throw pillow from the couch that had left green fibers behind, and when I moved into the hallway that led out to the garage, there were signs of a struggle. It smelled like bleach, there were scuffs on the wall, and a few sprays told me there had been quite a bit of blood on the walls. Kaye had been killed here. It was so obvious, an airtight case, and he insisted on not only acting like there was a chance he was innocent but like it didn't even matter. He had promised to love and cherish this woman, had killed her, and he didn't even fucking care!

My breaking point was when Grissom and I both turned to him, the pink streaks on the wall proclaiming his guilt, and he had the nerve to say "I have no idea how that got there." Right.

I don't even remember exactly what I said, short of accusing him of Kaye's murder. But I didn't see him when I stepped forward, pointing my finger. I saw my father, and I was accusing him of killing our family. He slapped my hand away, and I pushed him. He swore at me, I threatened him, and Grissom pulled me out of the man's reach while he continued to yell, his voice both scolding and disbelieving, literally lifting me off the ground in his effort to pull me away.

Jim arrested Scott Shelton, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Grissom kept his hands on me. Touched me in a way that implied that I was more than an employee. His hands rested on my upper arms, but his voice was not as soothing. "Hey! Hey! What is the matter with you?" He asked, and our faces were so close I could see the wheels turning in those deep blue eyes. I grit my teeth, breaking away from his grasp.

"I am a woman and I have a gun and look how he treated me!" I shouted, indignant, wondering how he could not be equally outraged. "…I can only imagine how he treated his wife…" I said, my voice weakening as I broke away from him, already berating myself for letting him see me that way. For being so obvious… surely, now, he had to know. The man was a CSI for god's sake. He would be putting two and two together.

He didn't say anything to me. I rationalized, because I had known the man intimately, that it was how he knew how to handle the situation. With our relationship being so strained, he might not feel like he could ask… but if he helped us nail the guy, then he was still helping me. I wasn't upset he hadn't asked, and I let him get on with the bugs. I didn't even approach him about the case until I had news on the bullets… which is when he told me that his insects indicated Kaye had died three days previous. Not five. Three. Scott was in New Orleans three days previous. Fuck.

I tried to find some other way to nail him… tried to figure out a way around Grissom's insects or Scott Shelton's alibi. I stayed up all night and through the next day, catching only about an hour around four a.m., combed through every demo car that Scott had driven—he worked for a dealership—and found absolutely nothing. I fell asleep in the break room over her file, and woke up to Grissom coming in for the night, a frown evident on his features. He seemed concerned that I'd slept there, but not enough to linger on it… No, he had something—someone—_more important _on his mind.

Warrick.

"I need you to do some background for me on Warrick without letting him know why."

"Oh." I said, irritated that we were going down this route again. "Warrick. Your favorite CSI." The last time I'd investigated Warrick, I'd recommended he be fired, and I'd been ignored. I didn't know why he had me bother—put me in a position to be at odds with the team, now that I was just finding my place among them—if he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted anyway.

He didn't deny that Warrick was his favorite, despite the bitterness in my voice. "That's why I want you to handle it… so that Ecklie can't accuse me of favoritism if it turns out that Warrick's clean."

I knew I should have refused him, but I found myself more inclined to prove myself his star pupil—his teacher's pet—and realized that professionally or personally, there was very little I would deny him. I exhaled, already hating myself for the weakness. "…What do you wanna know?"


End file.
